


First of May

by ManyManyMonsters



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - No Powers, But please don't comb for complete historical accuracy cos it ain't here, By avoiding them, Caretaking, Coming Out, Deaf Clint Barton, Def NOT period typical homophobia or violence among characters, Fluff, Fortune Telling, He's not as sickly tho', Hurt/Comfort, I need to deal with my IF and EG feelings., I'm as surprised as you, M/M, Mutual Pining, Or Small-ish, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Spiritualism, Steve's Small, Unblemished untraumatized and kinda naive and spoiled Bucky Barnes, Yeah you read that right, but it's referenced - Freeform, or sort of?, receptacle for all the circus and carnival history stuffs I've read too much of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManyManyMonsters/pseuds/ManyManyMonsters
Summary: Steve's a war vet that needs a job.Whether or not he needs the crazy one-armed trick rider from a two-bit dog and pony show circus crushing on him, is up for grabs, but he definitely needs a job. And a sandwich. And maybe some help with his PTSD.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 77
Kudos: 49





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> So, hey pal… ah, how ‘bout that Infinity War, huh? Helluva show, am I right?  
You know what?  
(Slams back a shot)
> 
> Fuck all that. Let’s go join the CIRCUS, ok?
> 
> (Infinity War, End Game, fucking worldwide pandemic -- you get the picture. My depression brain ate all my writing, but I'm putting it back as I can. Sorry for freaking out and deleting my work. Hope this is a nice escape for anyone who needs it.)

The postal clerk, his mouth a thin bent frown, pushed the frayed military ID back across the counter and shook his head before turning away.

  
Swallowing, Steve palmed it, carefully slotting it back in his wallet, almost like taking his time might give the clerk a chance to find some slip, some tucked away envelope accidentally squirreled between the letter sorter and the racks of grey canvas bags. No dice though, so he shouldered his way, blinking, back out into the bright morning sun.

  
Simply put, he was a mess.

  
A week back from the war and no check yet. His trunk was lost in shipping, so he had the uniform he’d arrived in and some odds and ends from his map bag: his sketch book and pencils, an undershirt and spare skivvies, a razor. Nothing really. He’d used the little bit of cash he’d had on him to put a deposit on a room at the boarding house with the promise of full rent when his check arrived, and now he was rationing what little other money he had on meals while he searched for work.

  
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be…

  
Out of Victory and Armistice and ticker tape parades, they were supposed to return triumphant to tearful mothers and their joyful best girls. A smiling welcome of family and friends, right? Only what was left of Steve’s family, his mother, passed before he signed on and he’d seen his friends killed in the field. Nor had he ever had a best girl. Smaller, thin, and only slipping through recruitment by the war’s insatiable appetite for young men —any and all of them would do — Steve wasn’t the poster boy of strapping broad shouldered veterans ready to retake the plow or build cars and houses.

  
He was smart enough, and more than willing to work, but the only experience he had was the army. Not qualified or educated for office work, nor big enough to command confidence for manual labor, he persisted, canvasing the town like a beat cop, taking odd jobs as he found them. And there was the other thing they hadn’t told him about coming home, more than that your paperwork and transitional pay would be molasses slow. Recruiters didn’t tell you you’d still feel the echoes of mortars tremble through you or see your buddies faces. Steve had always been excellent at drawing, but he was afraid to try it now, his hands shook so.

  
Leaving the post office, he made tracks in the chilly autumn air for the diner across the street, one hand in his pocket trying to recount how many coins he had left.

  
As he pushed through the door, his fingers read maybe 25 cents. Damn. He stood before a stool at the counter, studying the letter board above the coffee pots and grills. A donut and coffee was a nickel, but he’d burn that up in no time. Eggs were more, but oh god, he wanted protein. More than stomach pains or savory smells promising mouth watering flavors, he simply felt an empty animal instinct. A bodily need. Protein. Something more than sugar and flour.

  
“Have a seat.” The waitress nodded at him with a backward glance as she hurried past with a full platter to a booth of four.

And once he saw them, he couldn’t let it go… It would wipe him out, but two of the passing plates held a slab of fried ham with two sunny side up eggs. Not powdered eggs. Not watery, over-salted, canned ham-loaf.

  
He sat obediently, eyes flashing from those plates to their price on the letter board.

  
He’d do it. He’d have good luck job hunting today. His check would come. He needed the fuel…

  
“Ready love? What’ll it be?”

  
He blinked back and saw the waitress standing over him with a coffee pot. His own cup was still turned over on his saucer.

  
The words, “Ham and eggs, please,” almost emerged, but then he hesitated and quickly dipped his hand in his pocket. His fingers were wrong. Not twenty five cents but a dime, nickel and penny were what he found to set by the saucer.

  
He looked back at the board, then flipped his coffee cup for her to fill. “A donut please, and a boiled egg.”

  
“Coming up.”

  
Steve was maybe halfway through his meager breakfast, when the bells above the diner’s door jingled.

  
“Ladies and Gentlemen of this fine establishment, I bid you good morning!”

  
Everyone looked over. Framed in the entrance, with his arm swept out to hold the door open, stood a man in a crimson and gold tailcoat and jodhpurs. In one hand he held a long ornamented cane and the other pressed his matching red silk top hat to his chest, while behind him, a curly haired boy clutching a ream of colorful papers peered around him into the dining room.

  
“My name is Antonio Stark, and I come representing the wonder and delight of the Circus Magnifico.” He strode in, raising his arms. “The finest in aerialists, tumblers and marvels of human achievement the world has ever seen. Did I mention we also have ponies? There’s ponies!”

  
Steve spun his stool around for a better look, trying quell the startle the man’s entrance gave him.

  
“Sir,” The waitress began.

  
“Yes my good lady. You have question. Of course you do! I have questions, too. Have you seen a woman dive a thousand feet through the air to catch a spider’s thread by her pinkie and soar back to the stars?”

  
“Ah-“

  
“What about a sharp shooter who can split an arrow just like Robin Hood?”

  
“No…”

  
“Perhaps a rare and sacred leopard stallion? Whose rider can do handstands from his back at a full gallop? And did I mention, with JUST ONE ARM?”

“I — no…”

“I thought not! But you can and you will!” The man took the waitress’s hand and gazed into her eyes. “In your town, opening this Friday — just for the price of adorning your lovely cafe window with one of our comely posters.” He raised his eyebrows and panned a look around the watching room.

The boy shifted his burden and quickly held up one of the pretty rainbow sheets, splashed with elephants, horses and a riot of dogs and clowns, also making sure to also turn it to every curious eye.

The man tilted his head at the flustered woman with a winning smile. “What do you say?” He winked, producing two large goldenrod colored tickets from his breast pocket and pressing them into her hand.

  
“Well, sure. Thank you.”

  
Immediately, the boy began taping the poster into the window.

  
“No thanks are necessary!” Antonio beamed at the diner patrons. “All are invited to enjoy the spectacle. I promise a show like no other!” With a flourish, he clapped his hands. A glittery gold dove fluttered from them, making people gasp and laugh.

“But I will not trouble you fine people further! Circus Magnifico! This Friday! Half price matinee on Sunday after services!” He  
continued to smile broadly at everyone, discreetly passing the bird back to his young assistant, then spying Steve, clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be there, won’t you?” Steve could only register the man’s quick sharp gaze flashing over him before — “Of course you will! Our men in uniform are my special guests!”

  
Behind the flutter of departing coat tails, Steve blinked, and found himself holding one of the bright yellow tickets and his jacket sleeve smeared with shiny gold mica dust.


	2. The Menagerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steven meets a really sweet girl. She totally understands PTSD. It's just a shame she's got four legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be trying to repost a chapter each day. I'm having trouble preserving my formatting, so it takes a little more than cut and paste to clean them back up. I'll also be leaving the (I guess sort of?) salient chapter notes like this:
> 
> Just going to say, I'm also being vague-y McVague and hand-wavey with geography  
as well. This is all just small town USA. There's at least two, maybe more, towns  
named Logansport that were built on river traffic, so take your pick!

Steven tucked the thick paper ticket safely in his breast pocket like a good luck charm, but it didn’t do him much good with job hunting.

  
In the past few days, he’d already checked in with most of the businesses on the main street of town. Before he left the diner he even asked the waitress for any gossip or mention of leads.

  
She shook her head giving him an odd look. “We used to be a river stop with the ferry and all, but not since the train station moved. Most work’s moved down to Logansport. Where’d you say you were from?”

  
“Brooklyn.”

  
Her eyes widened and she made a thin whistle of surprise. “That’s a ways.” She went back to wiping the counter. “I hope you find something.”

  
In the end though, what he found were filled positions and a few other people mentioning heading to Logansport. Maybe it was better he hadn’t turned over a month’s rent at the boarding house?

The only job he found was helping a tiny old woman with an egg business catch the birds that had stopped laying to take to market. He felt a fool at first, tripping after the animals, frightening them into cackling bursts of feathers, but in the end it was kind of fun. The woman laughed with him and showed him how to use the leg hook to grab them off their feet. She didn’t have any money, but she made him a huge lunch and told him she might need him again in a month or so. A month or so. Steven thanked her and left, already his mind weighing whether or not his uniform would help him in hitch hiking to the next town.

By dark, he gave up and tried to slip quietly through the back door of the boarding house. It was an older wood frame building and he flinched with every creak of the floor as he made his way to the stairs.

“There you are.”

  
Steven felt his heart lurch and spun his back to the wall.

  
“If you’re jumping like that to see me, I can bet you don’t have the rent you promised.”

  
“No ma’am. My check’s still not in.”

  
The landlady had short steel gray curls and a red scrubbed look to her wrinkled cheeks. Right now she glared at him and made a tight face as though having to roll something sour around in her mouth.

  
“I’m not a fool. The last soldier I had, I wanted to do the right thing. I gave him a fair chance and all he did was lock himself in that room and drink. Most days drank himself senseless and pissed the bed. I won’t have that again.”

  
Steven’s heart was going a mile a minute, but he got the words out of his dry mouth:

  
“No ma’am.”

  
“All I have’s these rooms. Your deposit’s good till Sunday and that’s it. I am not running a flophouse, you understand me?”

  
“Yes, ma’am.”

Escaping the woman, and burning with shame, he beat it upstairs and locked his door.

  
The check would come in the morning. He’d open a bank account and pay his rent for several months…

  
Dousing his face with water, he scrubbed at his teeth, then undressed and rinsed his shirt, socks, and underwear, hanging them on the curtain rod to dry. Then he hung up his jacket and pants and carefully lined up his shoes underneath. In his spare skivvies, he flicked off the light and ducked under the sheet and quilt.

  
The dark room was drafty and chilly and the covers weren’t enough to layer out the cold. He curled in a knot on one side, waiting for some warmth to build.

  
Maybe he could sell his art supplies? If he couldn’t, he wouldn’t even have coffee for breakfast.

  
The bed’s mattress was thin and smelled sour. Was it the same one the previous tenant soiled? What happened to him?

  
_That’s not me. Not me. I will never touch a drop. I promise, Ma. Not a drop ever. You have my_  
_word._

  
He could feel the bent and popped springs through the mattress cover and wondered if it could feel his bones through his thin flesh right back. The air seemed so close and shivering. There were too many random sounds he didn’t recognize: squeaks, creaks and groans.

  
He was so tired, but sleep wasn’t coming. Admitting defeat, he climbed up from the bed and carried the mealy covers over to the corner where he pulled them around him, sitting with his knees drawn up and his back to the wall.

Downstairs he heard a murmur of voices and tinny music. A radio program, muffled by the thin walls.

  
Eventually, he dozed among trying to make out the words — only to wake screaming from a nightmare.

........................

Now it was Friday night. All day, pounding the pavement, Steven had found the phrases of “No,” and, “Sorry, son,” cementing his decision that Saturday morning he needed to head out to the highway and put out his thumb. Well, that, and his landlady’s reaction to his nightmare… She’d rushed the hall, shrieking that she had a shotgun like she was under siege -- until all the other boarders were sticking their heads out of their rooms. Then she chewed him out in the doorway for waking her at 2 am. She reached to yank him from the room and his arms flew up, knocking her back and he froze, eyes glazed and shaking, only knowing that he had to stay still. He almost had hit a woman and, oh god, that would have been the end of everything...

  
So, yes, moving on was the only option now. And a night on a church stoop or in a barn maybe?

  
But before that, he had a ticket. A bright spot of diversion and fantasy. Maybe going to the show could make him feel a little like a real person for a while. He could give himself that, couldn’t he?

  
Cheery gold bulb lights were strung on poles framing the old grounds by the ferry landing where the circus tents were pitched, and Steven followed the small knots of people to the main gate where a barker called “Death-defying feats of Daring Do! See TYCHO the dancing wonder horse! Careful you’re not caught in her web, The BLACK WIDOW will perform an aerial ballet on strands of pure silk! Your future is foretold! Madam Maximov sees all, knows all! Stronger than a bull elephant, YOU sir! Yes, you! Will see the mighty THOR lift horses like it’s child’s play!” And on and on… As Steven got closer, he saw that it was the canvas man, Antonio Stark singing this spiel from a raised wooden podium as he waved people in towards the ticket booth. As Steven passed, a young man with kerosene-soaked torches swapped places with him, then set them alight to juggle, all while picking up and continuing the grind patter. Antonio hopped down and, smiling welcome at everyone who passed, straightened his coat before turning to the main tent. Spying Steve, he clapped his shoulder in passing. “Good to see you, son.” He nodded with a smile before hurrying on his way. Steve felt a stab at this small acknowledgment, glad now he’d not given up on coming here.

  
Beyond the ticket booth, there was no midway to speak of. No games or rides. This show was clearly too small, but there was a cozy colorful tent surrounded by banners of mystic eyes and a palm reading chart announcing the services of Madam Maximov, the fortune teller, and several food vendors offering hot dogs, lemonade or roasted peanuts.

  
It was still a bit early, and the food smell, even just of the sausages, was pure torture to Steve.

  
Spying the open tent flap welcoming visitors to see the menagerie, he quickly headed that way, letting the scent of horse sweat, manure, and dry straw blessedly drown out the other aromas.

  
It turned out the show had made use of the stockyard corral by the ferry landing, pitching their animal tent directly over it and pumping river water into the concrete troughs. As circuses went, it wasn’t much of a menagerie. No elephant or monkeys; just a pack of dogs and several horses, plus a few odd goats and chickens Steve suspected were more likely to star on the table than in the Big Top.

But limited as it was, the animals inside were all sleek and well groomed and approached the wandering visitors like eager friendly pets. The smaller dogs, little curly-haired mutts and poodles, stood on their hind legs, hopped and spun circles, throwing out all manner of random tricks in the hopes of a treat, to anyone near, even small children, who squealed with delight. The larger dogs, a shaggy retriever-looking bitch and a freakishly tall lanky wire-haired male, stood patiently, soft eyed and tails wagging to receive pats and scratches. Several people murmured, asking each other about the large wire-hair dog. It was charcoal colored, and the scraggly locks over its eyes and around its mouth reminded Steve of cartoons he’d seen of the Devil, all pointy goatee and eyebrows.

  
“A wolfhound I think?” He heard someone say.

  
The horses were equally varied, and to Steve and everyone else’s surprise, also came in all sizes. There was a pair of palominos, so squat and small, they were scarcely the height of the retriever at their ears, a beautiful pair of shaggy bay Shetland ponies, a glossy black quarter horse mare, a couple of chestnut saddle horses, and a grey draft horse.. Weaving in and out among them, was a frisky tall white horse with a coat pattern Steve had never seen before. Freckled here and there on his stomach, sides and rump were random black spots. An appaloosa? This must be what the canvas man had meant by ‘sacred leopard stallion’.

  
Many people ‘ooo’d and ah’d over the spotted horse, and the animal pressed the fence, arching his neck and snuffling at hats and hair pomade curiously, to the onlooker's delight.

  
The black mare ambled over to Steve and hung her head over the rail to gently nose his breast pockets.

  
“Hello, girl.” He murmured quietly and reached up to touch the velvet of her nose. “Hi, beautiful.” His hand shook something awful, but he liked the calm of the animal; was glad to stroke her face and look at her deep black eyes with their long lashes. “You’re a sweet one, aren’t you, girl? Wish I had something to give you.” He lifted his other hand and rested it on her neck, swallowing to feel her so warm, large and solid beneath his fingers.

  
Staying beside her, stroking her shining coat, Steve looked around, trying to distract himself from the weird lump that had formed in his throat. He studied the make-shift structure: how the aisle was formed from the performance tent’s back with guide lines extended to the other side of the stockyard to create a lengthened roof. To mask the open sides of the corral, old canvas had been lashed in as walls. The cloth panels looked like a faded banner line, and even though it was dim at the back of the enclosure, and some were hung sideways and upside down, he could make out words, figures and splashes of worn away color. “No mere trained fleas! See Professor Pym and his Amazing Educated Ants!” and “Ororo! She controls the weather! DAZZLE to LIGHTNING on command!” or “Alive! Is he Man or Mountain? See The THING.”

  
Steve smiled a little, hand resting still on the horse’s neck. Puzzling them out was the perfect game to distract him. And he would have liked to have seen the trained ants…

  
Presently, the mare bobbed her head, gently shoving his chest and Steve looked towards where there was some chatter from the crowd. A groom had emerged from the tent flap and was milling between the horses, wiping down their coats and checking them over. He wore baggy coveralls and a duster, with longish brown hair pulled back in a small pony tail. As he worked, he grinned and greeted the visitors, answering questions, but in a quiet voice, a calm animal handler’s voice, that Steve could barely make out.

  
Most of the questions were about the spotted horse, who was practically prancing in place at the man’s appearance.

“Danish breed they tell me. A Knabstrupper.” The groom was telling a man in a fedora who held his small daughter’s hand.

  
“Never heard of it.”

  
The groom shrugged agreeably. “Me neither, sir. He’s just a big show off if you ask me.” He smiled and touched the animal’s raised cheek, muttering ‘whoas’ and ‘easy boys’ and all the other soft nonsense phrases riders use to calm their charges.

  
The mare gave Steve another nudge again before turning to glance full at the groom, ears pricked forward.

  
“That your pal, huh? The treat man?” He asked her patting her neck goodbye before she backed up and ambled towards the other horses where the caretaker was now doling out bits of carrot. Once she had her piece though, she put her head back over the railing, looking at Steve as she chewed. He couldn’t resist and returned to stroking her neck. Looking under her lifted head, he saw the groom straighten up from one of the ponies and laugh a little at them. Seeing him full on, Steve noticed two things: First, the man was about his age and for all his dirty baggy clothes, had a handsome face — that made Steve’s chest squeeze uncomfortably. Second, he couldn’t be certain, but the clothes fell a little too limp and hollow on the man’s left side. Come to that, had he seen him raise anything but his right arm to polish the horses’ coats?

  
The groom put a hand on his cocked hip. “Oh. So that’s how it is now girl? You two better be careful or I might get jealous.”

  
The crowd tittered at this and the man grinned, then gave Steve a quick wink.

  
A hot red flush rushed up his neck and ears and Steven barked out a dry laugh. What the hell? He felt like the ground was shaking and he prayed the other visitors couldn’t see his blush. He ducked his head towards the horse and continued petting her, hoping he looked like he was just chuckling to himself.

  
The groom’s face was like all the pretty boys Steven couldn’t dare let himself dream of. Thoughts he tamped down hard, but guiltily went back to every time he couldn’t muster the right and authentic eagerness in talking to a girl. Girls that turned away or frowned and shrugged when whispering about him to their friends. Why did he have to think about that problem now? Maybe being a nobody in this town meant no one was watching him… He prayed this was so.

  
A little fan fare interrupted the moment, and the crowd immediately turned toward the big top. Trumpets were announcing the approaching start of the show, but in Steven’s mind, God himself had just bailed him out and made him invisible again. He quickly joined the press of people heading for seats in the main tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing okay. I take care of my parents and my mom has no immune system so we are all staying in. I'll do my best to get a chapter of this back up each day, and if I can focus try to finish the last part of it I never published. If you haven't read this before, welcome and I really hope you enjoy it and it provides some bit of distraction.  
<3 MMM


	3. Inside Ring One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets a taste of the big top.

* * *

Finding his way to a ringside seat on the wooden bleachers, Steve tried to calm himself. It had to be his crummy week that was playing into his nerves, but his heart felt loud, like it was knocking against his chest.

  
No one could see into his head.

  
That was his mantra in training, in the barracks, the showers, on the front, all during the war, when all he saw were other boys his age.

  
Boys. He was 21 now. Young men.

  
Anyway, the chant that no one saw his thoughts as though they were written across his face was how he held it together. No one could see how he wanted to hold and dance with a man in uniform more than any USO girl, or knew that he tacked up pinups as a subterfuge. How he sketched the whole camp, vehicles, tents, mess kits and minutia—all of it — rather than just the line of a young jaw and squinting lashes in morning gold like he craved. No one saw how when he clapped a comrade’s shoulder and squeezed as they hunkered down during a bomb blast, his mind was rushing back to a boy he knew as a child, running barefoot on the boardwalk before turning to look back and grin, waving for him to hurry and catch up. Everything he’d ever wanted was just in that grin, and it was a million miles and wide wide oceans away from where the world was rattling and exploding. Coming apart, crumbling down with dirt and dust around his ears…

  
And now that his head held worse than what was forbidden, he was glad of the mantra again. No one saw the flashes of memory of the front. Cities to rubble. Screaming horses torn by shrapnel. Mine victims. Faces he knew, grey and yellow with open eyes that didn’t see anymore. And so much more he couldn’t put words to…

  
You’re OK.

  
He took a deep breath, tucking a trembling hand into his jacket over his thudding heart, and began to look around the big top like he’d looked around the menagerie. He wished for more washed up attraction banners to decipher, but settled instead for reading the groups of people around him:

  
A young couple, the gal in a blue dress with little flowers on it, leaning content on her guy’s shoulder. A mother with two young boys she couldn’t persuade to sit still. Steve counted families and first dates, and knots of teenagers and a few grey heads, and he tried to imagine what each came to see.

The lights went down, and the chatter of the crowd dulled to silence, then lightly, a calliope started. A spotlight stabbed down to the entrance of the ring, and Steve could see Antonio Stark, in his red and gold jacket and top hat, comically marching in place to the music, long cane pumping like a baton in time. With the next bar of the song, the music grew, and Antonio marched out, starting a circuit around the ring, followed by the grey draft horse pulling the calliope wagon. No driver sat at the buckboard, and the horse wore no bridle, only a headdress of fountaining ostrich feathers, as he tugged along gamely after the ringmaster’s jaunty march. On the wagon, a slender woman with long strawberry blonde hair sat astride the organ, feet pumping the bellows and fingers dancing over the keys.

  
Steve smiled. The two unruly little boys had instantly plopped on their butts and were staring at the small but lively parade, transfixed. The wagon finished its circuit with the pretty musician waving farewell before it vanished from the ring, leaving Antonio Stark in the center spot.

  
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Young and Young at Heart! Welcome to CIRCUS MAGNIFICO!” Antonio swept off his top hat, spreading his arms and bowing low, then rose to a violin waltz. The ring master waltzed along to the music, close to the first row of the audience, producing gold glittering doves first from the hat, then his sleeves, then behind a man’s ear, then a burst of them  
from a parked baby carriage.

  
Soon, the ring was littered with chubby bobbing and cooing birds, until there was a raptor’s cry and a dark winged shadow glided across the sawdust. Rowdies ran haphazard to gather the doves as a spotlight swung up, revealing high above, a man in a black and red winged cape stalking onto the tight rope.

  
“Ladies and Gentlemen! I give you, The FALCON!”

  
Steve stared up, fascinated by the aerial artist, and gradually began to let go of his racing heart and his constant intrusive memories…

  
The Falcon walked, tripped, tumbled and spun on the tightrope, until finally he dashed its length and leapt from the board to fly free above the gasping audience… and catch a waiting rope looped over the ring’s main entrance. Following the arc of the line, he swooped a circuit around the top, and Steve could see he wore aviator goggles and a wicked smile.

  
To the Falcon’s flight, Antonio announced the edition of the Black Widow, and a second flier, also in red and black emerged for the two to twine ropes high in the air and perform what Steve could only think of as aerial ballet. He’d never seen a real ballet; only kids recitals and snippets in movies, but this was so light, it had to be what it was like…

  
Kettle drums rose and the two dancers parted, each swiftly scaling far ends of the trapeze while the draft horse, mare and saddle horses each towed out the corners of the net until the riggers fastened off each of their cables.

  
The Black Widow’s platform was closest to Steve, and he could see now how petite she was, whip thin and long muscled. Her hair, slicked tight in a high bun, was as scarlet red as the hourglass markings on her leotard.

  
Across the rig, the Falcon locked knees on his catcher’s swing and arched, pumping it higher, until the kettle drums crescendoed and the Widow flung herself, spinning into the void, drifting down, arms outstretched, until chalked skin clapped on skin and she was caught.

  
He’s seen a trapeze performance before. Where was it? Coney Island maybe when he was a child. But it wasn’t like this. The grace of these two, and something in how small the Widow looked compared to the solid form of the Falcon, but unconcerned, she pitched herself into free fall all the same. It made Steve’s heart swell and he didn’t understand why.

  
The lump in his throat had returned. He was adrift like that in the inky black… But he knew no target. There were no trusted arms ready to seize him should he fall.

  
What was he doing?

  
Where was he going?

  
He tried to watch more, but ended up ducking out to get some air and scrub at his face with his jacket sleeve…

When Steve returned to his seat, the fliers were gone and the calliope had started back up again, playing sprightly music. A man in a green vest and tights, was jogging out surrounded by the ecstatic dogs from the menagerie.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, you’ve heard the tales of Robin Hood? Well I give you Circus Magnifico’s very own Hawkeye and his Hairy Men!”

  
It was ridiculous, but Steve instantly felt better watching the joyful little dogs dance on their hind legs, hop and spin. Hawkeye grinned and bowed in time to the calliope, letting them jump to his shoulders and run along his outstretched arms to then leap — like wee steeple chasers — to land and perch on little decorated platforms, one for each of them. When all were in place, the  
wolfhound jogged out and the trainer matched gate with him and with a wave of his hand, the little dogs poured down, racing after the taller dog, ducking under then leaping over his back in a moving spiral.

  
While the audience applauded this display, a thick, paper-covered wheel, 6 feet across, was rolled out in time to the music until it took center stage. Decorations of starburst patterns and streaming glittering bunting on the tissue cover commanded everyone’s attention.

  
With a drum roll and snare snap, the retriever, followed by the smaller dogs burst through this ring, and, as the paper fell away revealing a gleaming German wheel, Hawkeye leapt into it to loop and spin cartwheels into a tight spiral like a whirling top.

  
He pulled it out of the spin deftly, then slowed it to release the handles and do a lazy, long-strided jog within it while the dogs ran after in descending order of size. Each made a leaping pass through it before jumping back on its decorated platform. The man paused the wheel, rocking back and forth and mimed looking the dogs over before clapping and doing an broad arching wave. Every dog instantly sat up, and from between the animal’s stands, two caped dalmatians dashed out, flanking the wolfhound who now sported goggles and a glittering gold ruff around his neck.

  
“I present to you, Lucky! The Canine Marvel!”

  
Children around Steve laughed at this and clapped.

  
The lanky dog ran at Hawkeye and jumped at him, paws to his chest, thrusting him from the wheel. The trainer made a comic fall on his ass and shook his head in astonishment as the dog took over,racing the wheel around the ring to the roar of the kids.

  
Hawkeye dashed after, shaking his fists, making beseeching hands at the audience, then finally caught up and ran beside Lucky. He seized the handles and braked the wheel. The wolfhound reared on his hind legs and the two appeared to face off with each other, eye to eye. Finally, Hawkeye bowed as though in respect, and the dog spring boarded off his back, sending the man to  
his knees, and pulled himself smoothly through the side spokes to balance on top of the wheel.

  
The performer mimed more frustration, then froze, and raised a finger like he had an idea. With a wicked grin, he began to slowly rock the wheel this way and that, but the dog remained balanced, and walked on top as deft and dainty as a ballerina. The kids around Steve cracked up, clearly rooting for the dog and delighted to see the trainer taking the lumps.

  
Abandoning stealth, Hawkeye seized the handles and took the wheel around the ring in rapid cartwheels but the dog ran handily on top. They finished the circuit with the dog leaping down into Hawkeye’s arms before they styled to the audience and bowed.

  
Antonio emerged from the dark signaling the next act and at this, Hawkeye and Lucky ran at the little platforms, with a wave of swooping arms to signal the other dogs to exit in unison.

  
All did, save one. One of the dalmatians stopped and turned to Antonio. The lights went down to a single spot on the two of them and kettle drums rose in the music ominously. The dog wagged its tail and lowered its head as Antonio approached, circling around it with his long cane raised. With one gloved hand, he removed the dog’s cape and snapped it to the left then to the right. It ballooned out, impossibly doubling then tripling in size. He did it again over the demur dog, then took it in both hands, waved it out, now parachute size, to catch the air and drift down on the animal. But before the light fabric could settle, showing the shape of the dog, Stark whipped it back and the spotted stallion leapt from the dog’s place.

  
Steve sat back, floored, vaguely hearing the crowd go nuts around him.

  
How?

  
It was the center of the ring. That wasn’t possible.

  
After a stunned moment, he joined the audience that had risen and was stamping the bleachers and applauding as the horse, neck arched and tail flagged high, made a spirited canter around the ring.

  
It was a beautiful animal, especially in motion under the clear full spotlights of the ring. Steve had seen horses exercised before, but he knew nothing of the equipment. The horse had no bridle, only a black leather breast plate decorated with silver studs attached to a padded girth strap that had two wrapped handles below the withers. It looked like decoration on an animal running free.

  
As the horse blazed around the ring, Antonio stepped onto a block at the ring’s center and introduced Tycho, the sacred leopard stallion. “More precious than the white elephant of India! More awe inspiring than the ghost buffalo of our American plains!” His spiel and praises of how rare and spirited the creature was went on and on, his arms raised and animated as he projected to the back of the bleachers… but as he talked, Steve saw the little boys in front of him point and start giggling.

  
The groom from the menagerie, in his baggy coveralls, was backing clumsily into the ring with a manure bin and a shovel. Tycho tossed and shook his head, then trotted curiously up to the janitor to sniff his rump.The crowd roared, but Antonio, oblivious, soldiered on:

  
“Why, not even the royal menagerie of King Edward possesses such a beast, and not the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, home to the majestic Lipizanner Stallions of Austria, can claim one of his blood among them, nor could they even pretend to have the courage, the raw nerve, the pure steel will to tame him!”

  
At this, the horse bit the coveralls and yanked the groom off his feet. With another jerk of his head, the fabric broke away, revealing the groom in a silver and black vest, riding pants and boots. “But luckily, Ladies and Gentleman, Circus Magnifico has the notorious outlaw and charmer of all equines, James Buckaroo Barnes!”

  
As the crowd applauded and laughed, the new performer straightened, grinned and waved, while behind him, the frisky horse sprinted around shaking his old clothes like a dog with floppy toy. Steve stared. The man’s costume did nothing to hide it — James Barnes had only one arm. And yet, he paced after the horse and easily did a running mount. As he rode bareback around the ring, waving and styling to the audience, several rowdies ran out, placing bud vases, each with a single flower, here and there around the ring. Gripping Tycho with his legs, Barnes swung low to the right and left, his body a flag out to the side of the horse’s pistoning legs, to pluck each bloom — without disturbing a single vase — until he’d gathered a rainbow bouquet, all while the band played “I Want to be a Cowboy’s Sweetheart”.

  
Blossoms in hand, he slowed and stilled his charge, guiding his mount to approach the front row, where he urged the animal into a low bow. Buckaroo Barnes slipped down and presented the flowers to a little girl. As he did so, Tycho began to sneak away, and James spun, racing after to do another running mount. The crowd ate it up.

  
After this, it became a blur to Steve. The rider did every manner of vault, rode free standing on the animal’s back, slid down Tycho’s back until he was sitting right over the croup, then dropped behind the horse, to bounce on his ass in the sand and sawdust hanging onto his tail, even gamely ducking when the spirited horse shot a rear leg out at him. He even played up an amicable shrug to the front row at this, grinning as if to say, “alright, we both know I deserved that.” It was ridiculous and the best show Steve had ever seen. James Barnes was insane, possibly made of rubber, and the loveliest thing under the lights, all grinning, sweaty and devil-may-care  
triumphant…

  
Steve wished he could draw that beauty. It felt like a stab through him. With what was left of his nerves, his hands had a mind of their own now. Drawing, art… All that was probably behind him now, but it was the first time Steve had truly felt the longing come back. If it was gone, he thought looking at the rider and prancing horse, that was okay. The war was over and won now. That was the bigger picture to remember. He could pick up whatever was left and go on.

  
The show went on. After Tycho, Hawkeye returned with an archery display. He out did William Tell, cutting initials in an apple for a child, then, as Antonio told the story of Robin Hood at the tournament, making a bull’s eye only to split it with a second deftly placed shot.

  
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Clint Barton! Hawkeye! HE NEVER MISSES.”

There were tumbling acts, jugglers, floor acrobats, and more magic from Antonio… But Steve found himself searching the assistants and tertiary performers for another glimpse of the trick rider. He was part of the spectacle, right? Steve wasn’t just allowed, but was supposed to look, right?

  
Then, as a new act began, Steve’s felt a stab of excitement to spot him again. The rider loped out, leading the paired mini palominos in a circuit of the ring to show them off while several hands built up a piece of equipment in the center of the ring.

  
“He’s not a man, he’s the legend! Straight from Valhalla to Circus Magnifico, I give you the strongest man alive, THOR!”

  
A massive man, chest bare, with a golden beard and ponytail entered the ring.

  
The hands dashed back from three foot tall twin pillars they’d constructed that were joined with an arch of floral ironwork. With a wave from Bucky, the tiny ponies quickly huffed up ramps into colorful boxes atop each pillar, and Thor, the strong man, knelt beneath, lifting them first with his shoulders, then, beyond belief, hoisted the whole affair above his head. With a motion from the trick rider, the little horses reared up, their flinty hooves clawing the air to wave at the roaring crowd.

* * *

Wandering out of the tent among the chattering knots of people, Steve felt like he was leaving a dream. It was full dark now, and the weather had shifted during the performance, with a wall of dark tall clouds and the tense heavy scent of rain.

  
Despite the wind picking up and the promise of a storm, many lingered. The performers came out and greeted people to say goodnight and several people went to the fortune tellers tent. Steve shouldered his map bag and made the impromptu decision to look for a spot out of the rain in the derelict ferry boat house below the circus’s camp.

  
But first, and it was crazy to even think it, he wanted to speak to Antonio…

Except that was when the sky broke.

  
The lightning burst was instant, blinding. The whole world cut in white and black, like a sudden negative exposure, and the thunderclap that followed made Steve and many others drop, like animals flattening to the ground.

  
Sparks showered as a beam, high over the ferry landing, charred and licked in flames, sailed arching down through telephone wires on to land on the canvas extension joining the big top to the menagerie.

  
Several rowdies attacked it, and Steve rushed over, saw they were pulling rope lines free to drop the tent wall. He joined them, fumbling out his pocket knife when he couldn’t pull the knots loose. Shovels, sand, buckets of water and stomping feet chased at the racing flames, and Steve pulled off his jacket to beat at them. He saw Antonio and Thor doing the same, and the dog man and trick rider running, faces shocked, into the fray. They held the battle front to the top — saving the main tent, but Steve’s heart sank when he saw the fire hit the first of the old banner line. Ororo, painted in unknown grease and oils, caught instantly and dancing orange slashes flowed along her edges like poured gasoline. The Thing and Pym’s ants were only seconds behind her fate.

  
In the shouting and confusion, Steve heard the animals — dog’s barking and the terrified bell of the horses. He wasn’t the only one who heard. Clint and James raced to the wall by the corral’s original entrance had been, cutting and tearing a slit in the canvas. The small dogs exploded out of the bars of the stock yard gate and Clint and Buck fought to wrest the hinged metal open. It gave, sending them on their asses, and, led by the bigger dogs, the horses stampeded out. James and Clint ran herding them towards the open ground up the river bank, away from the fire and crowd, both yelling “Heyah! Hiyah!” and waving their arms before Buck saw that Tycho wasn’t among them.

  
“Get back!! Get Back!!” A rowdy was yelling, pointing.

  
Enough of the menagerie canvas was aflame that it was collapsing in.

  
At that moment, several things happened at once.

  
James was running headlong back towards the burning gash in the canvas.

  
But one of the rowdies, from seemingly nowhere, bodily tackled him and he went down shouting, sobbing and fighting. The other hands were running to intercept Clint.

  
The look on the rider’s face, clawing the ground and reaching with his one arm — it was a poisoned mix of grief and terror…

  
Steve had seen faces like that before.

  
Then he saw the hole only feet away and made a mad rabbit dash before Stark or Thor could stop him.

Inside the burning tent was like a bellow’s roar in Steve’s ears, and the string lights had come down, a bulb crunching underfoot as he ran towards the snorts and screams of the frightened horse.

  
In the smoke, Steve was almost under him before he could make out the beast, his rolling eyes showing their whites, madly tearing at and pacing the ground by the stockyard’s ferry gate.

  
With no better plan than what he’d seen Clint and Buck do a moment before, he cut blindly at the canvas until fresh air hit his face, then threw himself on the ferry gate trying to make the rusted metal budge. Tycho, seeing escape, crowded the gate, screaming and almost crushing Steve, but then, with a shearing pop and grinding groan, the hinge gave and the gate sailed free. The last thing Steve saw after the soapy white blur of the horse fleeing down the ferry landing in the dark was the ground zipping away and the swift black water of the river rushing up to meet him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of what Bucky does are tricks made popular by the Royal Hanneford Circus,  
specifically Edwin "Poodles" Hanneford who performed equestrian trick riding as a  
clown. But honestly, I just made a mishmash of things I've seen or read about. I don't  
know how anyone could do Houdini's Metamorphosis between a dog and a horse  
center ring either, but I figured if anyone could figure it out, Tony could, right?  
I found this chapter harder to write because I don't usually do pure action description  
and I felt like there had to be a limit to how much to describe without it just being a  
play by play. I hope it balanced out OK!


	4. Behind the Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Bucky know how to make a guy feel welcome. Self-conscious as hell, but still, welcome.

* * *

The sun was shining, warm on his face. The air smelled sweet, like hot caramel mingled with the ubiquitous but pleasant scent of the dry-baked planks underfoot. Boards the color of driftwood, stretching out forever. Echoes and creaks of dozens of footfalls. On the wide promenade were little loose clusters of people strolling, some in swimsuits, some carrying folding chairs and picnic hampers. He was twisting his small sweaty hand out of his mom’s loose grip, so excited by what he saw ahead.

  
How old was he? He hardly came above his mother’s hip. She let him go, laughing, and he dashed down the boardwalk to the other boy who was waving at him. Steve, all grins to hang a skinny arm around a freckled shoulder, warm skin on skin under a bright blue cloudless sky…

* * *

But it wasn’t summer, or warm with sun and salt-kissed air.

  
He was cold and coughing. His lungs burned…

  
Something huge and firm was squeezing around his chest as felt himself hauled up, turned over.

  
People were shouting…

  
Steve was too spent to protest or even follow everything that happened next.

  
There were lights — the gold of kerosene camp lanterns, with a sharp smell that stung and burned in the nose. It was too astringent to be gasoline, but close enough to bring back flashes of the front.

  
The ground was bobbing. There was a voice just behind his head. “Easy now, easy. Someone go get the doc!”

  
He was being carried. Felt an arm scooped beneath his knees and another across his back. His vision was sideways and he shook in the cold, his heavy clinging clothes robbing him of any body heat, even that of whoever held him.

People were running up in the dark. More voices. Questions. Still seeing the world tilted over, there was muddy ground and dozens of feet, then a haphazard row of golden squares swung into view: lit windows of many parked trailers.

  
“Here, Thor. Over here. Scott, can you get something dry?”

“What happened?”

  
“He got Tyke. Saved Tyke dammit. We need to get him dry. Where’s the doc? Someone go get Bruce!”

  
Now multiple hands were turning him, tumbling him from the huge arms and peeling at what was left of the cold wet uniform. He must be blue and his teeth chattered. More eager hands under him that felt hot against his chilled skin in the night air, then a thick blanket around him — so deliciously warm feeling just by virtue of it being dry.

  
“In here. Quick. Here.”

  
The arms scooped him back up, and Steve’s vision went dizzy fuzzy grey, before black.

* * *

  
Rough calloused fingers were stroking near his temple, gentle and tentative. “Here sweetheart. Here now… He’s coming around.”

  
Steve blinked and tried to focus.

  
He was laying in a little bed, no, …a trailer berth. Over him, the trick rider grinned and drew his hand back from where he’d been petting him, trying to rouse him. Steve colored pink, his eyes wandering around, confused.

  
“S’okay. You’re alright. Easy.” The rider continued, in the even smooth way Steve had heard him use to calm the horses. Words that needed no reply.

  
All of him was cocooned in warm covers, but for one arm poking out. Looking over, he found a man with salt and pepper curls taking his pulse. This man nodded in greeting, offering him a smile. “Nice night for a dip. Little chilly though.”

  
“Yes, sir.” Steve agreed, voice hoarse and small.

  
The trick rider beamed at this, clearly elated at a sign of life. But when he patted Steve’s shoulder, chuckling, his hand was gentle and he fussed to tug the blankets up to his chin.

  
“You’ll be alright. We’ll get you warmed up. Right, Bruce?”

  
“I think so.” The older man finished, folding Steve’s outstretched arm back beneath the covers. “I’m Dr. Banner. Do you remember what happened?”

  
Steve swallowed. “Lightning… The horses were trapped…” He faltered. “I fell in the river.” He concluded.

  
“That’s right.” The doctor gently felt over Steve’s scalp. “Think you hit your head?”

  
Steve managed a little shake, no.

  
“Can you tell me your name?”

  
“Steven Rogers, sir.”

  
“Good. Nice to meet you, Steven. Can you look here? Follow my finger.”

  
Obediently, Steve let his gaze track the index finger the doctor held up.

God. He’d cross his eyes and wiggle his tongue if it meant he could stay here in this warmth…

  
“Good. Good.” The doctor told him, then leaned in and asked quietly, “Been skipping a few  
meals?”

  
Steve felt his cheeks flush again, but he gave a small nod. “Army pension’s late.”

  
The trick rider who’d been watching all this clouded over. “What’s he need?” He urged the doctor.  
“I never saw anything like it. He saved Tyke.”

  
“Bucky, hush.” The doctor waved him off. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s a little stuck on his  
horse.”

  
Now Steve made a small smile. “’S a nice horse.”

  
“Right.” The doctor rolled his eyes.

  
“Damn Right.” Buck raised his fist in triumph and winked at Steve.

  
“Okay. Okay. Steven, I want you to rest here. We’ll get you some dinner, and then you should  
sleep. I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

  
“Yes, sir.”

  
In the shuffle of the doctor leaving and the trick rider having some sort of tete-a-tete at the trailer  
door, Steve couldn’t help but close his eyes again...

  
A little later, there was a rattle at the door, and the archer from the show came in, carrying a tray of  
covered tin dishes and a thermos. Following silently on his heels was the rangy, wire-haired dog  
from his animal act.

  
“Steve, is it? I’m Clint. You met Buck-o there.” Clint was taut muscled, just as he looked from the  
German wheel and tumbling acts, but up close, Steve could see he was also a mess of several days  
stubble and various scars. “I hope you like beef stew.” He said amiably, arranging the food on a  
pullout sideboard by the bed and starting to uncover things. “Real quick though— I can’t hear you.  
I hear about this much,” He held his thumb and forefinger apart a teeny bit. “Just so you know, if I  
can’t see your face when you speak, I catch nothing.”

  
Weakly, Steve shouldered his way up to a sitting position and turned his head to him. “Yes, sir.”

  
Clint laughed. “Me? Sir?”

  
Bucky smacked Clint’s shoulder, signing one-handed as he spoke. “Shut your yap, Barton. He’s a  
soldier. They show respect — even when it’s not deserved.”

  
“No lie. But I’m not a ‘sir’, kid. Trust me, just Clint is fine. Here you go.”

  
Steve blinked down at the bowl and spoon the other man held out to him, struggling to swim his  
arms from the weight of the blankets. Somehow he managed to raise a trembling hand.

  
“Whoa…” Clint whistled, drawing the dish back before it could be spilled.

  
“Here.” Buck drew up, pulling pillows from the upper berth to tuck behind Steve before putting his hand on his shoulder. “Sit back. Take it easy.”

The smell of the food was making Steve’s head swim. He sank against the cushions, frowning in frustration and embarrassment, his eyes pinched shut.

“Clint.” Buck waved and tossed his head away meaningfully. “I got it.”

  
The light shifted over Steve, and despite his burning humiliation, he looked up, finding Clint gone and Buck sitting by him, the bowl of stew on a spread bandana on his lap.

  
“It’s alright. Here.” The low, even, just-for-the-horses voice was back, as he offered Steve a spoonful. “You’ll feel better once you’ve got something in your stomach. It’s okay. Trust me. Sometimes everyone needs some help.” He tipped his head towards his empty left arm sleeve.

  
Steve’s self-consciousness crumbled at this, and he sank back a little and accepted the bite of food.

  
“That’s it.” Buck encouraged. “There you go.”

  
The beef stew was rich with soft chunks of fall apart cooked down meat, onion, carrot and potato. Savory, warm and filling. When two bowls of it was gone, there was the thermos full of hot tea with milk.

  
“This… This is yours.” Growing drowsy, but definitely feeling more solid, Steve’s eyes wandered curiously around the trailer cabin.

  
“The car? Yeah, Clint’s and mine.” Buck agreed, smiling at him, clearly happy to see some curiosity, a little liveliness.

  
“It’s your bed.” Steve clarified.

  
The trick rider’s eyebrows went up, but his voice stayed knowing and unbothered. “Yep. Mine to share or give away.” To illustrate, he scooped behind Steve’s shoulders with his one arm, lifted him carefully and plucked the extra pillows propping him up out with his teeth to drop to the floor. Then he settled Steve down prone, drew the blankets back up to cover his shoulders and patted them in place with finality. “You’re exhausted. Sleep now, like the doc said.” He told him quietly but firmly.

  
Steve might have argued, but he was too wrung out. And what was more, he hadn’t felt this in so long…

  
It wasn’t that the trailer was especially luxurious, or its berth a deep king-size bed. He didn’t need that. It was finally that Steve felt, just… Enough.

  
Enough food to fill him up.

  
Enough covers to keep his body heat in.

  
A mattress stuffed enough to not feel rails or springs or the floor through.

  
To feel warm enough.

  
And to feel real —- not some bothersome ghost haunting the unfamiliar town. The circus people looked at him full-on, in and out, and saw… a person. One worthy of care and concern. It made him feel human.

He watched Buck and Clint stack the dishes aside, then knot a hammock through rings on either side of the car. Turning out the lights, Clint hopped and heaved himself easily into the upper berth while Buck grabbed a pillow and blanket and rolled smoothly into the sling. For a moment, Buck kicked around like a restless caterpillar in a cocoon, then Steve saw a hand emerge to whip a balled up sock at the upper berth. It flew back instantly, a deft shot at the hammock’s head, and the silhouette of a hand, proud middle finger extended, emerged from the bunk over his head amid quiet snorts of laughter.

  
“Go to sleep you fucking rodeo clown. We got company.” Clint hissed.

  
Very low, so low Steve was certain the archer could never have heard, came a sarcastic whisper. “Yes, sir!” And a crisp salute over one end of the hammock.

  
Steve smiled. Outside, he could hear the rain and thunder with its steady spatter and drone, but in moments in the snug, now still dark of the trailer, he drifted, relaxed, and sinking down, slept deep.

* * *

  
A clap of thunder rattled the trailer, bringing Steve around with a start. Rain hammered down outside. It was dim and grey, but definitely daytime… He was laying in a strange bed…

  
He blinked, trying to get the pieces to fall into place. He was in a circus trailer. He’d fallen in the river and the trick rider and archer had brought him here… Where were they now? How long had he been asleep?

  
Across from the bed, a slender woman with vivid red hair was lounging in the hammock, reading a book in some language Steve couldn’t make out… Russian?

  
He watched the woman shift, rocking softly, and flip a page. Recognition dawned… She was the aerialist from last night, the Widow, now wearing rolled up trousers and a plaid flannel work shirt, but no less delicate and, he admitted, somewhat predatory looking.

  
“Hey, ah… Do you,” He ventured, “Speak English?”

  
Lowering the paperback, her eyes flicked over and she cocked her head quizzically.

  
He tried again. “English?”

  
She frowned and shook her head at him with a little shrug.

  
“Oh jeez. Okay.” Steve swallowed, eyes darting around the room. He felt around under the covers, growing more panicked. Where were his clothes?

  
“Hey, um, you know where my pants are? Pants?”

  
“Если вы думаете, что я говорю вам, где они, поэтому вы можете встать, вы более сумасшедшие, чем вы оказались на прошлой ночью.” She smiled sweetly at him.

  
“Oh boy.” He dropped his head back to the pillow, trying desperately to think. That seemed like an awfully long answer to such a short question, which felt… …ominous?

Before he could decide what to do, the trailer door creaked open, bringing in the steady drum of rain. Clint appeared, dripping wet. “Man, it’s still cats and dogs out there. Hey ‘Tasha. He awake?”

“Sure.” The woman dropped lightly from the hammock. “Just woke up.”

  
A glance at Steve’s face then back to her’s and the archer’s eyes narrowed. “You doin’ the Rooskie routine on him?”

  
“Теперь, зачем мне это делать?” She signed as she spoke and sidling past, pecked Clint’s cheek, then glanced back at Steve as she left. “I do hope you find your pants. Try James’s hope chest.”

  
Clint rolled his eyes. “Sorry about her. Buck and I had to go take care of the animals and help see what could be salvaged. Didn’t think you should wake up alone. Hope Natasha didn’t mess with you too much. That’s rule number one. Never trust Natasha. How’re you feeling?”

  
“Better. Thank you.” Steve managed to sit up, swaying, and remembered to face Clint.

  
“Easy there,” Clint frowned. ”Doc still wants a look at you.”

  
Steve set a hand forward abruptly to steady himself. “What about the trapeze?”

  
“Huh?”

  
“Never trust Natasha even on the trapeze?”

  
“Ha. Well,” Steve found Clint taking his shoulders and guiding him back to the pillow. He let him.

  
“Good point you got there. That’s between her and Sam I suppose. Fliers code of honor or something. But that woman is a menace.” He growled, but he grinned fondly as he said it.

  
“What time is it?”

  
“‘Bout one o’clock maybe? You got somewhere to be?”

  
“No, sir. Not exactly.”

  
“Ha. You’re killing me, kid. Relax. Bruce will be here in two shakes. What is it?”

  
“I really need to pee.”

* * *

  
“Hot cider?”

  
“Fuck you, Barton.” Bucky said amiably, wrinkling his nose.

  
Steve wanted to crawl under the covers and die. The doctor was here and he’d just peed in a pickle jar and watched Clint, basically a stranger, carry it out whistling… …and apparently showcasing it to anyone he passed.

  
“Hey, sunshine. Congrats. That looked like a healthy yield. How’s he doing, doc?” Buck slid out of his now dripping duster and hung it by the door.

But Dr. Banner had his hand over his face, shaking his head. If nothing else, this restored Steve’s tenuous hope that there was at least one sane person nearby.

  
Bucky plopped sideways on the hammock, swinging, and grinned at Steve who was rolling his eyes at the ceiling, mortified. “What? You downed that whole thermos of tea last night. I bet you had to piss like a racehorse.”

  
Bruce cleared his throat. “Really, it’s your reserve and gentility that I admire Barnes. What finishing school did you say you attended?”

  
Steve stifled a snort laugh and ended up coughing until Dr. Banner rolled him on his side and slapped his back a few times.

  
“Sorry, sorry.” Buck said quickly standing and instantly becoming all hovering concern.“He okay?”

  
“I haven’t even started the exam. If we don’t choke him to death first, I’d be happy to take a look.”

  
Steve caught his breath and pushed his way up to sitting, wheezing.

  
“Buck, why don’t you go see if you can find him some clothes? I think Peter’s about his size.”

  
“I just got here.” Bucky protested, looking pointedly from Bruce to his wet coat, wounded.

  
“Clothes for your guest Barnes. And grab him some lunch too, alright?”

  
Seemingly torn between the indignity of being dismissed and a sympathetic look at Steve, the rider took his coat and went.

  
And Steve seemed to find it easier to breathe with him out of the trailer.

  
Dr. Banner was opening his bag and removing a stethoscope and a few other instruments. “I thought you might want a little privacy. Circus people aren’t used to that much — but I suppose neither are soldiers.”

  
“Yes sir, thank you.” Steve wheezed.

  
“No thanks necessary. The performers especially aren’t used to getting marching orders either. I say why let Stark have all the fun?”

  
Steve decided he liked Dr. Banner.

* * *


	5. Professor Pym's Protege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets a new roommate and bombarded with more new faces. He still can't keep  
up with a pair of pants though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome new readers! *waves*  
Also, this was the chapter where I had received some commission art from Bucky and Fubar creator, Yawpkatsi -- so I'm gonna try to repost it at the end. :)

* * *

Somewhere in the exam and learning that his clothes and shoes had ended up in the cook tent to dry out near the stove, Steve ended up telling Dr. Banner about the boarding house.

“I was going to wire the base and then try hitching down to the next town today. I appreciate all this so much but I can’t put people out of their bunks.”

The doctor gave him a bemused look and shook his head. “You’re not going out in this wet mess. First off, you’re not up for it, especially with that rattle in your chest. And second, Clint and Buck pretty much sleep where they fall. With their animals, in the net, here, there, you name it. Point is, you don’t need to worry about putting anyone out, okay?”

There was a sharp crack of thunder, and Steve felt a cold bolt of panic pass through him, but managed to freeze before he did a full duck and cover. A glance at the doctor told him the other man had seen.

But Bruce only gasped a laugh himself, putting a hand to his chest. “Jesus. Startled me too. That was a big one. And after last night, well…”

Steve breathed and forced a thin laugh also, even though he was trembling. “How bad was it — the fire damage?”

“Not terrible.” Banner assured him. “The horse ran about half a mile, and they have to do some patching on the sidewall of the big tent. The menagerie canvas was a total loss, but they’ve housed the animals in the main top before, or tied them out in the open air when it’s nice. Tony will work around it.”

“Tony?”

“Antonio. Goes by Tony. You’ll see him later I’m sure. Maybe to say thank you or possible to bawl you out for being an idiot. Probably both. Oh boy…” Bruce’s eyes tracked something through the trailer window. “I think your lunch is here.”

The doctor rose and swiftly intercepted the trick rider at the trailer door. Steve felt his stomach knot up, and his mouth go dry. He didn’t know how to navigate this. On the one hand, most every part of him wanted to see James again — see what the hell he’d do next — and on the other hand, the thought of being pinned on display under the curious gaze of those blue-grey eyes was completely terrifying.

Then he heard through the divider at the head of the bunk the doctor’s hushed voice: “James. He’s still worn out, okay? He needs to get his bearings.”

Steve was pretty sure Dr. Banner didn’t realize he could hear them. He flopped back on the mattress, embarrassed, but so blessedly relieved.

“Yeah, sure, doc.” There was definitely a note of concern in the other voice. “Whatever’s best. Clint and I didn’t mean to cut up so much.”

“It’s alright. Just some quiet now, okay? I’ll take him the clothes. Tell Peter thank you.”

Peter, it turned out, was about Steve’s size. Bucky had brought an undershirt, boxers, flannel button up shirt, pants, and even an oversized lumpy mustard colored wool sweater.

As Steve tugged on the underthings beneath the blankets, Bruce held up the jumper for appraisal. “His aunt likes to knit. I think he’s been trying to give this thing to someone since last Christmas.”

“Really? It’s great.” Steve put on the flannel next and slid the folded pants under the pillow for safe keeping.

“All yours.” Bruce chuckled. He tossed the sweater into Steve’s lap and opened the other bundle Bucky had brought. It was a tied up table cloth containing a ridiculous amount of food: a half dozen roast beef sandwiches, several boiled eggs and an apple and a pear. “I don’t think you’re going to need to worry about skipping meals if Barnes is around.”

“I’m sure it’s for both of us.” Steve managed, feeling his ears go hot.

* * *

  
Dr. Banner went to return the table cloth and found Tony at the cook tent. His friend was getting coffee and looking over the soldier’s belongings. Someone had hung up Steve’s map bag and pinned a spread-eagle notebook, now puffy and waterlogged, to a strung line with the drying dish rags and his other clothes. It was open to a page with a group drawing of soldiers smoking and playing cards.

“These were nice sketches.” Tony gestured to the book. “Shame. He live around here?”

A glance at Bruce’s face told him the answer.

“Right. So, warts and all, what’s the verdict doc?”

“Kid’s pretty worn down. It’s not pneumonia, but it probably could be with a little push. A few days rest and some regular meals should turn him around.”

“So, three hots and a cot. No problem. And the accommodations? He seem okay, or are the prima donnas fussing about their real estate?”

Bruce chuckled. “No, no… Barnes thinks he hung the moon dashing after that damn horse. And you know Clint. Bastard would sleep in a steamer trunk or an outhouse as long as his dogs were nearby. I’m more concerned it’s not quiet enough — you know what it’s like you give those two knuckleheads an audience.”

“Mmm. Yeah. Peter still thinks Wanda cursed Clint deaf and Barnes lost his arm in a poker game. Lemme think… The band’s already packed in like sardines. Thor and Jane have Darcy…”

“Lang?”

“Perfect. And soldier boy will be good for him. He could use a role model. I’ll go tell Scott the  
stork’s bringing him a bouncing baby G.I.”

* * *

  
Somewhere in polishing off his half of lunch and listening to the doctor answer his questions (Would they still do the show tonight? Of course. The rain might drive some people off but more would come to see the site of the fire… Antonio knew a disaster was wonderful publicity…) Steve couldn’t help falling asleep again. It was like the moment things got quiet here, the past weeks of the ship back to the US, the road travel to here, the job hunting, just everything would catch up to him with a vengeance and how tired he was sank in…

So the next thing he knew, it was much later and the doctor was rousing him, and Thor (to his complete mortification) was carrying him to a bunk a few trailers down while a woman about Steve’s age trotted behind them holding a red and white striped umbrella over them both. Installed in the new bed, when Steve mumbled a thank you, the giant man grinned and boomed something in Norwegian before rubbing his head with a massive hand.

“He says you were very brave and he’s honored.” The woman’s smile twinkled. “Darcy Lewis.”

She offered him a hand full of glossy red manicured nails. “We’re working on his English. Want to  
help?”

“Uh, sure?” Steve shook with one hand while unconsciously pulling the blanket up like a shield  
with the other.

“Peachy.” She winked. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

She gave him a little wave before hurrying after the strong man, and Steve was left with Antonio who had a stranger hanging back at his elbow. Even though Antonio was in ordinary day clothes, something in the sharpness of his gaze, his carriage and demeanor made him claim a performer’s authority. He commanded attention and was all easy grace and unflappable smiles. By contrast, the dark-haired man next to him looked more like Steve felt: rumpled as though newly woken up, a bit shy, and like he was totally faking the confidence that he knew what the hell was going on or that maybe any of it was his idea.

“Okay. So,” Antonio began, “Steven Rogers, this is Scott Lang, our pet hardened criminal. Lang, this is Steve, the local one man volunteer fire department. Scott here is a lighting technician, which means he’s had this snug little lab all to himself to make our glorious pyrotechnic displays. Since the doc says you need a few days rest and Lang has a spare bunk, we arranged to rescue you from further exciting adventures with Robin Hood and the Lone Ranger.”

“Hi.” Scott said with a little wave.

Just then Steve realized he hadn’t grabbed the pants he’d squirreled under Bucky’s pillow. Damn. “Nice to meet you.” He managed.

“Great! Glad you two are chums.” Stark smacked Scott’s back and strode over to Steve. “Now then, what you did… It was amazingly reckless and stupid, but you saved probably the top draw of my little rag tag outfit. So, I’m your genie and you get a wish. What can I do for you?”

“I need a job, sir.” The words just popped out.

Antonio’s eyes flashed over him, searching, for only a second, then he clapped his hands and bowed his head formally. “Granted. You start as soon as you’re cleared for active duty, soldier.”

Wait. What?

Steve blinked in disbelief. After being told ‘no’ for so long, it seemed too easy. “What’ll I do?”

“No clue yet. But I have until you’re done with R & R to figure that out, so don’t rush me.”

Antonio patted his shoulder and swept a hand at Scott. “But in the meantime, you’re to provide a fine upstanding moral example to Mr. Lang here. That means zero larceny committed in his presence. Absolutely none. Not even a tiny one. I forbid it.”

“Yes sir.”

When Tony was gone, Steve glanced up and down at the unassuming man shuffling blue prints and wiring arrays around the work counters built into the trailer. Scott caught his eye and offered him a shy smile.

“He builds it up more than it was, you know.” The electrician offered with a shrug.

“Robbery?”

“Oh, god no. Robbery means you had a weapon.” Scott shuddered. “Burglary. Third degree. That just means I had a good plan.”

“But you got caught?”

“On paper it was a good plan.”

“Sounds like it.” Steven smirked a little.

“Hey! You know I can throw you back in the clown car with B & B anytime, right?”

Steve knew immediately from the puffed up desperate way Scott said this, that the man could do no such thing. “Sorry. So you do all the electrical? All the lights?”

“That’s right.” Lang nodded cautiously.

“So the spots, the other lights? Does that help Antonio make things vanish and appear?”

Scott’s face melted into a grin, “I would never tell. That’s a rule you’ll learn — Tony never gives away his tricks…” He shook his head with a laugh, then snatched a schematic off a counter and sat by Steve. “But if you want, I’ll show you how I make the falcon shadow fall over everything before Sam comes out.”

* * *

  
...to be continued

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazingly incomplete and haphazard Circus lingo stuffs:  
Top - short for Big Top, the main performance tent.  
First of May - A traveling circus's season generally started May 1st, so it became the nickname for newbies  
Canvasman - This one's weird. It's another term for roustabout, the guys that set up the tents, but traveling circuses also had advance men who traveled ahead of the show to put up posters and arrange promotions for it before it hit town, so they 'canvased'  
the town. Tony's show is so small he does a lot of everything, so I've referred to him with this term too.  
Grind/Patter - Colorful phrases and descriptions used in talking up a show - the presenters talk. But in Carnival lingo, it was insulting to call this person a 'barker'. They called them a 'talker'.  
Bannerline - the row of giant banners advertising acts or attractions. These also served as dividers to keep backstage areas separate from public areas on the performance lot. Traveling shows generally had them on canvas and the sides of trucks, etc, but if you look up old photos of boardwalk areas like Coney Island and Luna Park, there were a lot done on wood panels too. Very few old fabric ones survived as they could get used up in tent repair and they could be flameable or subject to rot.


	6. Professor Pym's Protege (continued)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries. He doesn't have any luck, but he tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I would pop in some vintage photos for flavor!

* * *

Clint looked down into his drained coffee cup, blinking with dull eyes and willing himself to wake up. Around him, the cook tent vibrated with activity. Other performers and workers held plates in line amid the sizzle of eggs and sausage and the steam of hot water for tea and oatmeal. A server hurried through the rows of long tables and benches with a fresh percolator, spotting empty or half empty cups and pouring efficiently here and there, before rushing back to the station for the next pot.

Ug. How could anyone have so much energy? He would never be a morning person. The only thing that saved him was routine; to get up and shove his body through the A.M. chores by rote like one of those clockwork automatons at the dime museum. Consciousness could come later, if it felt it must

There was a bump at his shoulder and he looked over. Natasha stepped over the bench to sit by him, setting two plates down and shoving one in front of him.

“Thanks ‘Tash.”

They ate in companionable silence, soon joined by Sam, who wanted to talk about Peter’s work in his gymnastics drills.

“We need to work on the back arch. I don’t think it’s strong enough.”

“Mmm.” Nat nodded. “His timing’s good though. There’s some floor work he could be doing to build up that strength. More bridge, lay off the stretching so much…"

Clint let his head droop back down — it was nothing he needed to follow or discuss. The server refilled his cup and Barton gave the fresh coffee a soft and loving smile before pulling it close and dousing it with some milk.

Natasha was probably still talking about whatever new and exciting pretzel-like activities they should coach Peter on, when something caught her gaze. She elbowed Clint and signed for him to look towards the cook area.

Clint saw where she was looking. Bucky had come in and instead of getting chow, he was leaning over the side table by the stove and talking to one of the girls in an apron. He grinned, flopped

down a pair of folded pants he had tucked under his arm and pointed to the items on the drying line by the stove.

Natasha gave Clint a smirk, watching James eagerly smile and sweet talk to the girl, clearly telling her something amazing that required a lot of gesturing, ducking and gasping. The young woman’s eyes went wide and she smiled, hurrying over to pluck down Steve’s bag, book and clothes.

“He’s laying it on with a trowel.” Sam gave an admiring huff. “Watch him go.”

When the girl had everything folded into a neat bundle and delivered into Bucky’s waiting arm, he leaned over and pecked her cheek in thanks then strode off whistling.

“Is that what they mean by a skip in the step?” Nat wondered.

“Definition of.” Sam confirmed.

“What’re you guys talking about?” Peter sat, straddling the bench, already cramming a biscuit in his mouth.

Sam didn’t miss a beat. “How to get your lower back up for some full bar work.”

But Clint had looked over at the cook area again. “Crikey…”

Sam and Natasha followed his gaze.

Now Thor and Jane were getting in line, but Darcy had bopped past them over to the side table and waved at the same cook.

In the dull roar of the crowded mess tent, none of them could hear a word that was said, but the pantomime was pretty clear as Darcy pointed and asked about the soldier’s things too.

“Well, this should be fun.” Natasha sighed.

The cook shook her head and said something that made Darcy put her hand on a cocked hip and draw her head back. She nodded and gave the girl a breezy wave, but her shoulders slumped a little as she retreated to join Thor and Jane in the queue.

“I sort of feel bad… Hey, ow!” Clint swatted Natasha’s pinching fingers away.

“Ya’ll need more hobbies.” Sam rolled his eyes and returned to his coffee.

“What’s going on?” Peter looked between the three of them, baffled.

“Your uncle Clint will explain it when you’re older.”

* * *

Glad the rain had finally stopped, Bucky jogged brightly across the open lot between the cook tent and the semi circle of parked trailers, hugging the soldier’s belongings. He’d seen the open pages of drawings that were visible when the sketchbook was hung up, and they were so good. The urge to stop and paw through the rest of it was strong, but that wouldn’t be right. It was private.

Like a diary…

He froze and mentally had to pull himself up by the reigns hard.

Nope. No. That is not a thing you do.

Not even when it might tell you something really vital you need to know about a person… One does not look through someone’s personal private work without an invitation.

He squeezed the bundle tighter where it was wedged in his armpit, wishing he couldn’t feel how awkward and bloated the poor book was now, or that he knew some way to smooth it out and give it back to Steve in better shape than this. The damn thing hardly closed now. Presenting it in this sad condition wasn’t going to feel like good news — it was salvaged, sure, but essentially ruined. The soldier had given him back Tycho in one piece. It didn’t seem fair that all of his stuff was fouled up. When they’d gone through the fire wreckage Saturday morning, he’d found the soldier’s uniform jacket, all charred and riddled with huge holes from beating down the flames and the wool smelling like burnt hair. The rowdies just buried it with the canvas scraps as they shoveled, turning over the ground to make sure all the embers were out.

And it wasn’t just about his horse. When he’d seen the slender blonde in the menagerie, with the warm happy way he looked at the mare, James had felt his chest squeeze. He thought Steve was lovely, all blue eyes and those thick expressive brows, and the slow quiet way he moved with the animals, all watchful and centered. It gave him a weird feeling, like he knew him from somewhere …or he just sort of felt familiar? James didn’t know how to explain it. Just thinking about the soldier made him feel a cold lump of loneliness mixed in equal parts with painful hope. Steve was so different than the knots of young men who came through, hooting, yelling and hanging off of each other, horsing around. Bucky had pointed him out in the audience to Clint through the canvas slit as they’d readied themselves for the show, and Clint, distracted, shoved him off and told him to screw his head back on straight before he got it kicked in…

What did Clint know, anyway?

When he got near Lang’s trailer, he felt another little stab: anticipation. He hoped Steve was awake. Hoped he was feeling better. Hoped Lang didn’t answer the—

“Hey, Buck. What’s going on?” Scott looked a little confused.

“Oh, ah. I brought uh, his things. Steve’s things. Is he up?” He tried to peer around Scott as he worked to shift the bundle out from under his arm and into his hand.

“Hang on.” Lang looked around the door into the trailer. “Hey Steve, it’s for you.”

Bucky heard a bump, some soft curses, and then the soldier appeared, holding a sheet and blanket around himself, his hair a tousled, gravity defying mess. James broke into a huge smile at this.

“Hey.”

“Uh, hey…”Steve swallowed and looked down.

“They dried your stuff out by the stove, so I brought it for you, and uh, you left the pants Peter gave you in my bunk…” Bucky had hoped this was a grin-worthy comment, but seeing Steve’s reaction, his chipper-ness faltered, and he dipped his head as though hoping to catch Steve’s eye again. “Anyway, Yeah. I hope you’re feeling better?”

Steve accepted the bundle, his mouth twisting in a little grimace when he saw what was left of his book. “Yes, much better, thanks.”

“I was about to go get breakfast. Could I bring you…?”

“Oh, thanks, but that’s okay Barnes. I haven’t gone yet, so I’ll bring his back.” Scott smiled, totally oblivious to any awkwardness. “I know you’ve got a lot of work with the matinee and all today. Two shows. Boy, I don’t know how you do it.”

When Bucky beat a hasty retreat, Scott beamed after him. “Wow. That was so nice of him! I don’t usually hear much from the performers, you know? Here, let’s find you a spot to keep your things.”

For his part, Steve was relieved being bunked with Scott. Lang proved a perfect roommate: pleasant, quiet and self-entertaining. Most of the time, he read, wrote letters, or worked on his equipment designs and tinkering. The only noise he made was softly singing snatches of the low radio’s pop tunes to himself as he hunched over his soldering, or chuckling happily when something came together or he solved a problem. It was easy for Steve to nap, or lay quietly listening to the murmur of activity, which was nice… Peaceful, but not isolated feeling. And even though Lang’s trailer was smaller than Clint and Bucky’s, and something of a cluttered mess, Scott seemed happy to have company, clearing not just the lower bunk for him, but also a drawer, half of the wardrobe and a cabinet for his personal use. When Steve was awake, he offered to find him books and taught him to play chess.

“I’m not allowed at the poker table anymore.” He explained, setting up the board. “If you like to read, Tony and Jane both have a lot of books, and there’s a swap box in the cook tent. And we can wire a lamp and a shelf in your berth, like I did in mine, if you want.”

Steve didn’t know what to say. “That’d be great. Thank you.” He managed.

Scott grinned.

Steve noticed that the books Lang himself kept laying around were all either electrical or mechanical technical repair manuals, or, well… juvenile. The Bobbsey Twins. Alice in Wonderland. My Friend Flicka. Toby Tyler. The list went on and on… He didn’t seem to care at all for newspapers or adult fiction.

At first, he thought Lang was just being hospitable about meals. When he brought them back from the cook tent for Steve, he brought his own too and chatted with him while they both ate. But by dinner, Steve was beginning to suspect Lang usually dined in his trailer, probably hunched over his work bench with just his radio for company. But he didn’t think that was something he should ask about though.

As they ate dinner, his eyes wandered over the walls above the work bench. They were festooned with myriad papers in no discernible pattern. Most were diagrams of wiring arrays, but mixed among the schematics were also some tacked up newspaper notices, old posters and vaudeville playbills. Steve spotted one with an enormous ant holding a chess queen in its mandibles.

“How long have you been with the circus?”

“Doing the lighting? Mm. About 4 years now. I did some apprentice stuff though when I was still in school.”

Steve pointed to the ant. “With Professor Pym?”

“Yeah!” Scott brightened. He snatched down the flyer and handed it to Steve. “Helped me get my journeyman certificate. It was a great way to learn, repairing his ant props. First thing I worked on was their drawbridge and tug boat.”

Steve felt a little pang of disappointment. “So it was like a flea circus? Just motorized props?”

“Oh no.” Scott shook his head. “Not at all. Pym was a real entomologist. He never wanted it to be an illusion, like you were just watching miniatures move around and being told the ants were doing it. And he hated flea circuses — did you know they would glue and wire harnesses to live fleas for each show? When those died, you did it again for the next performance.”

Steve made a face. He hadn’t known this.

“Right? I mean, I know they’re fleas and no one likes them, but that’s just cruel. Anyway, Pym knew how to synthesize ant pheromones. They use them for signals and directions — that’s how they communicate. So he’d use them to send them on a trail to form letters and spell names or messages. Can you imagine seeing your name written in live ants? Or he’d make them go to numbered circles on the table to solve math problems. It was really all the same things you’d see trained pigs or horses do, only no one expected it of ants. I mean, he did the motorized carousel and little working cityscapes too — people love that miniature stuff — but the ants really did things people could see. I gave the carnival set up with the ferris wheel to Cassie for her birthday.”

“Cassie?”

“My little girl.” Scott showed Steve a snapshot of a little girl with a tiny midway lit up on the table beside her, beaming. “She’s so smart.”

Steve smiled to see the face in the photo. “Looks like she loves it. What happened to Professor Pym?”

“Well, I finished my apprenticeship and he kept on. He toured with the Magnifico, you know. And after my, uh, burglary, he wrote to me in prison. Wanted to retire and suggested I learn about the ants and take it over from him. But when I got out, it was too late. He was gone along with the pheromone formula. Tony knew what his plan was and hired me anyway — just in a different capacity.”

“What do you think he’ll have me do?”

Scott considered this. “There’s always work. You drive trucks in the army?”

“Sure. Trailered cargo too.”

“So there’s that. Any other specific skills? What’d you do before the war?”

“I was studying art.”

Scott’s brows went up and he twisted his mouth as though considering his words carefully. “Well, there’s plenty of work. A million things to do. You’ll see.”

* * *

Steve took another deep breath, eyes flashing curiously to the doctor, although all he could see was the top of Bruce’s bent head. It was Tuesday and Steve felt much better. Fine. Antsy even. The break had been desperately needed, but now he had cabin fever and was ready to get out of the trailer and be useful.

  
Banner straightened and removed the stethoscope. “All clear. You’re Tony’s problem now. But no more polar bear swims, okay?”

  
“Yes sir.” Steve grinned and began buttoning his shirt. What would his job be? What inner workings would he see? Would it include rehearsals with James? Oh Christ… That thought made his chest squeeze and heart pound, but luckily Bruce wasn’t still listening to his chest. Maybe they needed another groom and he could work with the mare and ponies?

  
Scott walked him to the office trailer, a long affair with gold gilt lettering proclaiming along it’s black glossy side, “CIRCUS MAGINIFICO! WHERE DREAMS RUN FREE AND TAKE FLIGHT”. The entry door had a barred window like a bank teller’s counter, but was open a crack. Steve knocked lightly.

“Entre!” A voice boomed.

“Tony, stop…” A feminine voice chided, then the door swung in, pushed by a bare foot, revealing entry steps up to Tony and the woman with strawberry blonde hair. They were seated over coffee and breakfast at a large desk cluttered with papers, file baskets, rubber stamps, invoices, blotters and other such office truck, and both of them were in dressing robes. The woman’s hair was braided with the fringe tied to curl on rags or clipped with pins. “You must be Steven. I’m Pepper.”

She smiled.

“Nice to meet you ma’am.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Wonderful. Go get breakfast. Afterwards you and I will throw Tony out and put this place in order. You’re going to work with me today.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, as I run across pics that seem appropriate, I thought it'd be fun to add them. There's a fantastic facebook group where people try to identify circus trucks, and I love it because books usually only show the very flashy ones for show and the fb page includes a lot of personal snapshots of the more mundane ones you don't see as much. And (warning!) circus nerd stuff: I included the tent set up pic from the 70's because it's a great view of a typical traveling show's site. The smaller tent would be the menagerie or sideshow. If Tony's show was bigger, they'd have that instead of doing a fly off the back of the main top. It also shows a nice banner line. That crowded area in the entry is what later became the midway with games and rides. Earlier, like in the 20's and 30's, if the show had really flashy trucks and trailers, they would park them lined up around the site so they acted as advertisement and to wall in the lot. But shows with more modest equipment usually put the trailers behind the tent on the back  
lot to hide them and for privacy.


	7. The Spirit World

* * *

On Monday night, Bucky couldn’t sleep. Clint had climbed into his berth already, but one of his small hairy mixes had followed him to the trailer and was now frittering around the floor, toenails tapping, whining for the amazing vanished Barton.

James rolled over and considered the dog. It was a brown and tan rag mop with one hell of an underbite. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like the Wolfman?” He asked it, reaching over to rub its head. The dog stared at him with big black watery eyes and whimpered. “Alright, alright, fine.” He got up and scooped the dog up, lifting it to let it scramble up next to Clint.

“Mm. Thanks. Forgot Bashful.” Clint mumbled. The blankets rose up letting the dog burrow under and vanish.

While Bucky knew Clint’s seven smaller dogs were named for the dwarves in Snow White, he wasn’t always sure he remembered which one was which. Okay, so the one that looked like Lon Chaney Jr was Bashful. Good to know.

Anyway, it wasn’t the fussy little dog that was keeping him up.

When the show was established in a town, they generally opened on a Friday but ran Wednesday thru Sunday the following weeks. They always did two shows on Sunday, matinee and evening, and in larger towns, even added a matinee on Saturday too. But Monday was a day off. Bucky and Clint both still had to take care of their animals, but other than that, they took a break from drills, training, and rehearsals, often going into town for personal errands. But this Monday, Bucky had hung around the lot all day.

He saw Scott in the cook tent, but he couldn’t think of any offhand way to ask him about Steve, and Steve himself didn’t emerge from the trailer.

So he busied himself, grooming and walking the horses, lingering with the black mare for a bit. “I kind of think you’ve had more words with him than I have. What’d you two talk about, girl?” But it must have been said in confidence though because the mare wasn’t talking.

He knew he’d see Steve on the lot eventually. Antonio had hired him, so there would be time — but still James couldn’t stop thinking about how terrified he’d been to see him limp when Thor pulled him out of the river… Or how happy he’d been when he woke up — that he was okay. And he’d been right there, looking lost and confused, but safe. Bruce had even made him laugh. God. Bucky wished he could do that…

Jesus. What the hell was wrong with him?

It was because James had looked after him. That was it. He couldn’t help but feel something for creatures he took care of — that’s all it was.

What a lie.

He was lonely.

When there was a night off and crew or performers went to town, James would see Antonio with Pepper, or Clint sneak off with Natasha or Thor with tiny Jane. Even Wanda had asked Peter out to a movie a little while ago. How weird to envy just having a hand to hold… And James usually wound up playing cards with Dum Dum and the other roustabouts or taking a book to lay in the straw with the ponies to read.

Join the circus and see the world. Meet new and interesting people.

So here it was, Monday night, and he was laying sleepless…right in the spot Steve had been not that long ago. James sighed and groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. That was one of the perks of living with a deaf man. You could make all kinds of noise like you were alone and it wouldn’t bother Clint a bit unless James banged or kicked something. Realizing how pointless trying to sleep was, he got up and stabbed his feet into his brogans and pulled on his coat.

The top was dark, and passing by, Bucky could hear inside the shifting and snuffling of the sleepy horses. He stalked past, looking to see whose trailer still had a light on.

Wanda pushed her screen door open a crack and peeped out. “Hey, Barnes.” She stepped back and lifted aside the purple curtain that cloaked her door way, letting him enter. “You’re early.”

“Huh?” James did a double take.

“For your palm reading. We just did it last week.” A few times a month, James would go to Wanda for a nail trim. If anyone asked him, his joke was to say it was for his palm reading. “Oh, no. No, I’m not here for that. I mean, I am, like, if you really do that, but not for that.”

Wanda gave him a wry look as she backed up and sat at the little built-in dinette table. “If ‘I really do that’? Seriously?”

“You know that shit gives me the creeps. It’s all cold reading anyway, right? And, I, I don’t want to talk to dead people, okay?”

“And yet, you’re here for whatever it is I really do or don’t do now?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Okay, well, maybe. I don’t know. I have some questions, okay?”

To her credit, Wanda tried really hard not to smile. “Questions. Ok. Let’s head over to my office.”

Wanda's small fortune teller's tent felt like slipping into a cave, this late at night. Completely black, and muffled with the many velvet draperies and decorative hangings. Everything smelled of sandalwood, melted wax, and a sweet incense. James bumped against a floor cushion and almost fell before Wanda lit a candle revealing the sitting area.

He stared at her face, bottom lit with the small gold light flickering, and tried to hide a shudder. He really really did not like the spook show stuff.

Before her was a low round table, draped to the floor, and surrounded by round poufs and floor cushions. Along with the candle on the table were some yellowed tarot cards, a marble spirit board and an amber-tinted crystal ball about the size of an orange.

James straightened and glanced around. “Ok. So what do we do?”

“Come have a seat.”

“Over there with you?” James pointed.

“Yes, over here with me.”

“Right.” He strode over and stiffly lowered himself to sit on one of the cushions, eyes flashing around the circle of dark surrounding them. Wanda sat too and James immediately put out his hand.

She took it, but didn’t look into his palm. “The lines on your hand are the major elements and makeup of your story. I’ve seen it enough, I could tell it to you now, but I don’t think you’re looking for the big brushstrokes. I feel you’re looking for answers. Details. Things about someone besides yourself.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed wide at her. “Yeah. Yes.”

“I’ll hold your hand if this stuff really gives you the heebie-jeebies, but I think we need the crystal or the cards for this.” She pursed her lips to keep from smirking and gave his hand a little squeeze. Bucky jerked it back and scowled at her.

“Don’t play around.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” She picked up the deck of cards and riffled them through her hands before setting them on the table. “Cut the deck and draw one from the top.”

Buck did as she told him and flipped over a card that pictured a man suspended by one ankle.

“Again,” Wanda said.

The next card was a woman seated on a throne with a large curtain hanging behind her.

“Once more.”

“I don’t like this.” Bucky tapped the first card. “Why’s he strung up like that? Who’s she?”

“He’s the hanged man, and he’s in suspended animation. Maybe he strung himself up, to give himself time to think or get a new perspective. And she’s the high priestess. A keeper of secrets. But you need to pull a third card for me to put them together.” She patted the deck. “One more time.”

He cut the cards again and flipped the top card…

…Revealing a body laying on a beach stabbed with numerous swords.

“No, no, no.” Bucky started up, sweeping at the cards and sending the deck fluttering here and there off the table and into the dark. “I don’t like this. That’s not—“

Wanda seized his wrist, not smirking or laughing at him anymore. “Hey. Hey. Sit. We don’t have to do the cards. We can look at the crystal, okay? You were going to ask me about the soldier, right?”

“What?” James jerked his hand back, his eyes going wide. “Why do you say that?”

“Jesus Barnes. Maybe study up on the banners out front. I see all, know all, remember?”

James swallowed, looking down.

Wanda reached over and took his hand again. “Copacetic?” She searched his face, but he kept his eyes down.

“I just want to know if maybe he’d like me.”

Wanda's face crumpled. “Oh, honey…” She hurried next to him and put an arm around him, giving him a squeeze. “I hear you. Yeah.”

Barnes leaned into her with a shuddering sigh. “There’s no one here like me. In the show.” He said quietly.

Wanda nodded against his shoulder and rubbed his arm. “Alright. Look, I tell you what. Next time I go into a trance, I’ll ask the dead people grapevine what they know. You don’t even have to be around. I won’t even tell you who told me.”

“Really?”

“Really. No promises about the answer being what you want, or if they’ll even know anything, but I’ll ask. Now get out of here so I can pick up all my scary cards.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The three tarot cards Bucky pulls are referencing Steve's situation. The hanged man  
can be someone in stagnation or stasis but can lead to a growth insight. The High  
Priestess, with her veil we can't see the secrets behind, is Steve's hiding of his  
sexuality. And the Ten of Swords is a card depicting panic and disaster, trying to point  
to his PTSD. Honestly, though, I think Wanda prefers reading tea leaves. It's hard to  
see them in a dim tent, but hey, you get tea. ;)


	8. Steve's Jobs (Pun Intended. Don't hate me...)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve hurls himself into work because it beats the hell out of being chased by war  
demons, or two overly interested coworkers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I didn't get a chapter up yesterday! I'm doing my best. 
> 
> Also, someone messaged me asking if I'd put the unfinished Vampire Steve/Sex Worker Bucky story back up (and wow, just typing that makes me realize how off-brand for me everything about that story sounds all written out.) And the answer is, I don't know... The subject matter/situation was so much darker than this. I guess I would say that if I'm able to write the ending, I will, but I don't plan on posting it unless/until I have a 100% completed work of it.

* * *

On the one hand, the cook tent reminded Steve of the army mess halls — or maybe more like what he imagined the officers mess to be like with the tablecloths and nicer food — but on the other hand, compared to the ordered quiet of Scott’s trailer, walking into it was opening a curtain to overwhelming noise and chaos. Long crowded benches stretched out before him, with performers and rowdies sitting every which way, jawing as they ate. Clouds of steam and the sizzle of frying eggs and bacon billowed from the stove and serving area and everywhere was the racket of  
clinking china and clattering tin. The shock of the activity and then the realization that Bucky could be anywhere in this crowd made Steve’s heart hammer —

“Happy! Over here!” Instantly a biscuit sailed past Steve’s face, easily caught by a burly man with rust red curls and an old fashioned mustache with mutton chops. He tipped his bowler hat, presumably at the pitcher, took a bite, and began juggling the biscuit along with an egg and an apple over the table he where he was. “See there, child’s play. I should join the show!”

Steve saw that all this was for the benefit of the young woman he’d met the night of the move, Darcy. She was sitting at the table under the juggler and smiled, rolling her eyes, then spotted Steve and waved.

Eager to be efficient and get back to Miss Potts but not wanting to be rude, he waved too, then saw the line and quickly joined it.

* * *

“There.” James’s head shot up like a pointer dog, and Wanda followed his gaze.

“Oh, right. The little blonde?”

“Don’t stare! But yeah…”

“If we stare, maybe we catch his eye and say hello? Possibly even invite him to sit with us?”

“Oh Jesus. Yeah, okay. Just don’t be so obvious about it.” Bucky grumbled, then blushed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Clint, who looked like if he listed forward any further he’d be in danger of drowning nose-down in his coffee, glanced over and glared at the two of them somewhere between sour and confused.

* * *

As Steve reached his turn in line and took a plate, a shadow fell over him, making him freeze.

“Steven!” A voice boomed and a massive hand clapped his shoulder, making him jump and his heart stutter.

He gripped the plate and gasped, glad he didn’t drop or snap it, before he spun around.

The enormous Norwegian grinned down at him. “Little hero! You’re feeling better?” Without breaking eye contact with Steven, he thrust the tray he held at the servers who piled it high.

“Yes. Thank you.” Steve stammered and followed Thor’s lead with his plate. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Please! More than that!” Thor scoffed and motioned eagerly to Steve’s normal size portion. “He runs in fires and swims rivers!” The strong man rambled on happily with even more words, but they were all in Norwegian.

One of the ruddy-faced cooks looked Steve up and down doubtfully, then shrugged and shoveled second helpings on top of his plate.

Thor beamed his approval and steered the two of them around. “Come! You will eat with Jane and I!”

“Ah, sure. Thanks.”

As he followed the giant between the long benches, Steve glanced around for anyone else he might recognize. But he only spotted Clint before Thor was introducing him to a petite woman reading a thick tome on astronomy. “This is Jane. Jane, this is the one who —“ He paused, searching for the  
word he wanted. “Frees horses.” He concluded.

“Freed the horses.” She smiled. “Or freed Tycho.”

“Yes. Freed.” Thor didn’t seem to mind the verbal fine tuning.

“Unless you go around doing it all the time? It’s Steven, right?”

“Yes ma’am. Just Steve is fine.” He quickly set his plate down and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you. And no, I don’t do it on the regular.”

“Good.” She told him emphatically shaking his hand. “I’ve cleaned up after a few fires, and well…” She shuddered in illustration before offering him a smile. “But you definitely made an impression.” She tipped her head at Thor who was standing over the bench, gesturing broadly, as he apparently related the events of the lightning storm and fire in Norwegian to one of the hapless coffee runners. “There’s three other people here — two from Oslo and one from Svalbard, and he’s done this to all of them multiple times now.”

“Oh? He’s Norwegian too?” Sitting down, Steve pointed to the runner who was wide-eyed and nodding at the strong man.

“No idea.” Jane grinned and shrugged. “But Thor won’t let that stop him. Don’t mind him, eat your breakfast.”

* * *

Shortly after Steve sat down with Thor and Jane, James saw him look up, spot Clint, and then spy him.

He immediately grinned and waved.

Wanda’s eyes cut to him as she sipped her coffee. “There you go, sweetie.”

Steve smiled and lifted his hand in a wave back…

* * *

  
“Hey, handsome! You get your marching orders today?” Darcy plopped down on the bench by Steve and helped herself to a piece of his bacon. “What’s Tony gotcha doing?”

* * *

  
James felt his heart dive watching the activity around Thor. Steve smiling and looking down. Darcy cutting up.

Darcy.

She was pretty and cute and fearless… And she was his age, and she was a girl…

…and she was whole. Not some lopsided…

“Stop it.” Wanda said abruptly. “Okay? I can actually hear the itty bitty gears in your head grinding Barnes.”

James swallowed. “I know…”

Wanda cut him off. “You know that when she signed on she sniffed after Peter, and then Scott? It doesn’t mean anything. She’s just a boy-crazy teen. Doesn’t mean he likes her.”

James laughed. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

Between fielding the battery of questions Darcy threw at him and trying to bolt down his breakfast, Steve managed another look at Bucky.

The rider had a lovely young woman with dark mahogany hair leaning in to talk to him while rubbing his bicep.

Steve sighed, feeling a weird cocktail of disappointment and relief. He tried to ignore the disappointment and just tell himself it was relief. If the attraction was one sided, he was that much safer. _Just keep to yourself, Rogers, and you’ll be OK._

He excused himself and hurried to Miss Pott’s trailer.

* * *

  
He sort of wished Antonio was still there when he arrived. He felt awkward and shy realizing this was the lady Stark lived with. But Pepper didn’t seem to care. She buttoned the door open and waved him in. “Thank you so much for your help. Peter normally pitches in, but he’s thrilled, thrilled I tell you to be able to do more drills today. You’re his favorite person right now.”

“Drills?”

“Practice. He’s studying trapeze too. Did you do any filing or accounting in the military?”

“A little.”

“Perfect.”

  
So, far from exciting animal or acrobatic work, Steve helped Miss Potts organize receipts and invoices, mostly for groceries and animal feed, count and record ticket receipts and concessions, until the papers all around began to take shape into smaller more orderly piles. Being in the office  
for a bit, Steve realized part of the clutter came from the walls themselves being a nest of tacked up posters and show memorabilia, and nothing to do with the active mess they were working on. He blinked at a weathered red and white one sheet from the Hippodrome featuring snow white horses forming a pyramid, then looked down and realized the table he’d been sorting invoices on was actually a bed. Antonio and Pepper’s bed. This was their house, their room… They literally ate, slept and breathed circus.

  
As they worked, Miss Potts made conversation, quizzing Steve for his story, where he was from…

“And what are you doing way out here?”

“I used to have an uncle that lived out this way. He’s been gone a while now. Always made it sound nice though. Peaceful. Quiet.”

Miss Potts scooped the papers she was sorting up and tapped them straight and neat against the edge of her desk with a kind smile at him. “Quiet. Yes, I can see the appeal. I’d like some of that myself. Shame we found ourselves here.” She gestured a slender hand at the raucous mess of billets, schedules and pealing posters, then gave him a wink.

  
When the accounting work was done, Pepper showed him how to ink and load the letter press and set him to work cranking out the big yellow tickets. “How many of these do you make?”

“Mmm. About fifty or so. Tony gives those out when he canvases. In the box office we just use the red tear off rolls.”

Someone knocked loudly on the side of the trailer before mounting the steps, making Steve jump and jerk the printer handle. He looked over to see a stout barrel-chested man enter and haul a canvas sack from his shoulder. Steve knew exactly what that was, he’d watched the post office for his check so closely. “Mail call. Hey, you the new guy?” The man tilted his head at Steve, eyes sizing him up.

“Steve, this is Happy Hogan.”

The man thrust out his hand. “I thought you’d be bigger. Stark says if you run into another one of his tents when it goes up, you answer to me. Assuming you survive of course.”

Steve shook the man’s hand reluctantly, which had all the warmth and softness of a sledgehammer.

“Hap. Shush.” Pepper rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t mean it.”

“'Course I do.” The man glared.

“No you don’t. Steve, Happy here handles our security. You see anything weird or unsafe on the lot — fights, lost kids, snoops, you just tell Happy.”

“Yes ma’am” Steve said, not breaking eye contact with the short burly man. The corner of Hogan’s mouth hitched up into the faintest of smirks.

“You’re bunking with Lang, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Steve was fighting to keep his voice 100% neutral.

“Good. You keep an eye on him, First of May.” Happy slapped Steve hard on the shoulder, laughed and headed out.

  
When Hogan was gone, Pepper gave Steve an apologetic look. “We’re such a small show. Poor Happy doesn’t get to break up many fights or throw too many drunks out as he’d like. He gets a little bored and restless, you know? He’s really a teddy bear though.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Steve liked Pepper, but Hogan had put his back up, made him feel anxious. He brushed it off and tried to think of something else, deciding to ask some of his own questions. “Ma’am, not that I know your business, but isn’t it late in the season?”

Potts nodded. “It is unusual. We run into the autumn, and quit sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving depending on the performers and the weather. You’ll like Halloween. Miss Maximov does a seance.”

“Ah, sure. So… November? Then what?”

“Winter quarters for a lot of us. We have a farm property for the animals. Some go to the coast and get bookings at the boardwalks or dime museums through New Years. Natasha and Sam —the trapeze performers — they often do some dates in New York and the like. Come April, we get back together and open again in May.”

Steve’s face must have fallen, because Potts was giving him a sympathetic smile.

“Oh! Don’t look like that! Tony didn’t give you a job for just a few weeks! Is that what you thought?”

Steve grimaced and laughed a little. “It’s been my luck lately ma’am.”

“Oh no. You will be so busy. First, you’re going to get drug all over this place. Learn a bit of everything so we can find what suits you. Second, all the things that have to be done to prep the show — care for and train the animals — all that has to happen whether there are performances or not. Don’t you worry.” She patted his hand.

  
Pepper did not lie or exaggerate about Steve doing everything and being drug all over. In the following weeks, as they moved to the next town, in no particular order, he:

  * Continued helping Pepper with the office work, and learned to prep the box office for sales and kept printing tickets.

  * Learned how to fill out the shows mail forwarding request for each town on the schedule. Then how to sort the mail when it came in. He grew more familiar with who was who as people came by to pick up their mail or checks.

  * Got drafted into mess hall stuff, which was oddly comfortable feeling for him, like being with his unit in training or during quieter times during the war. He did busy work like washing and cutting vegetables and skinning potatoes. When he had a jittery day and was freezing up with the knife, an older cook took it away and discretely handed him a peeler. This same woman, for some reason made him drink what looked like black coffee, but was hot water and blackstrap molasses. He was so grateful she didn’t boot him for fumbling the knife, he drank whatever she put in front of him and was the first to volunteer to help her scald and pluck chickens.

  * Learned to do the endless laundry with a wash pot and ringer.

  * Was tasked with all the small grunt work: clearing manure, moving straw, sawdust and sand, sweeping and raking the top before shows, then clearing the bleachers of trash afterward and delivering it to the fire pit.

  * Helped set up the hot water and pipe arrangement for the showers behind the cook tent Showed Tony how he could drive, park and level a truck and trailer, after which he was assigned as the driver of Lang’s. This had previously been Happy’s job as Stark wanted no reason for an officer to ever ask to see Scott’s id, and Lang beamed like he’d won the lottery and told Steve he was a good luck charm.

  * Learned to work the hydraulics and come along for raising the center pole. The rowdies promptly banned him from ever doing it since he ‘wasn’t union’, but he understood the process and how it was done. Strangely, after this lesson, the fortune teller appeared. “Steve. I’m Wanda.” He shook her hand and found her pressing some keys into his. “I’m not a union operation, so you don’t have to be in their little club. Get my truck and you can help me raise my tent. I’ll show you how the banner line is erected.” She smiled and Steve recognized her as the woman he’d seen James with at breakfast. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mostly, in being tasked with different jobs, the question turned from ‘What will Steve do? into ‘What won’t Steve do?’ and the answer was pretty much that there was nothing he wouldn’t attempt. He was up for anything. The scope and variety of work to distract him and keep him busy tempered the noise in his head wonderfully and he was able to make himself tired enough that at night he could drop into his bunk and sleep, not worrying too much that a nightmare might shake him up or yell and spook Scott.

  
And it kept him from focusing too much on the ubiquitous presence of Bucky Barnes.

  
Anywhere Steve went, the rider seemed to pop up. Was he sorting mail? James came to get his, with what seemed like too much of a grin to find he had no letters, just a forwarded hometown paper. Barnes was from Kentucky if his mail was any clue. Was Steve taking trash to the fire pit? Bucky was riding Tycho across the lot for exercise and giving him a wave…

  
An odd incident happened when Peter and Antonio showed him how to prep doves for the show. They were in the back of the top, the costume alley where the coop was kept. At a makeup table, from the dozens there, Tony selected several jars. They were low, wide and flat like Steve had seen for his mom’s cold cream, but inside was a soft glittery powder.

“So, gold here is the signature, but every now and then we do some in this…” Unscrewing one with ‘azure’ scrawled on it with a grease marker, Tony showed the vivid cerulean mica inside to Steve, “…and we make some bluebirds of happiness for variety.”

After Antonio showed him how to cup his hands around the doves and lift them, Peter and he practiced touching the mica until their palms were covered and stroking it onto the bird’s feathers.

“If you end up moving the birds or canvasing with Mr. Stark, you’ll find this stuff everywhere.” Peter sighed as he worked. “Up your nose, in your hair. You name it…”

Steve was only half listening. On the back of the table against the tent wall, a lacing rope was loosening on the canvas, all on its own. As Steve finished the bird he was gilding and leaned over to fetch the next, the canvas parted a little and he saw Clint’s eye peer in, darting over the table. It vanished, followed by Bucky’s, which immediately spotted Steve and crinkled at the corners: he was grinning. Steve cut a glance at Peter, who was finished with his dove and had managed to smear his face with both colors of mica. The boy was absorbed in trying to scrub it off with his sleeve in one of the dim makeup mirrors. Steve looked back and saw the hole widen a little so he could see Clint putting a finger to his lips, then point at one of the jars he couldn’t reach.

“Jeez. I even know what the stuff tastes like by now. I bet the birds do too…” Peter lamented.

Steve set his bird down and hovered a hand over where Clint was pointing. When he reached the right jar —blue — the pointing finger became a thumbs up. Silently, Steve handed it over. Next, the finger directed him to one of the gold and Steve could hear a delighted snicker - definitely Bucky - behind the canvas when he delivered it. Quickly, the soldier faked a sneeze to cover it and doubled over to glance at Peter.

The boy didn’t even turn from the mirror — he’d only managed to more evenly smear the stuff on his face and shirt as he worried at it. “See what I mean? Up the nose is the worst.”

“Yeah.” Steve agreed. When he looked back at the canvas, the hole was laced closed again.

  
And then, of course, there were meals… Always, and especially after the mysterious mica heist, Bucky and Clint had a seat available near them, and the rider would grin and wave him over.

In truth, Steve liked it. He felt welcomed and was glad to be part of the gang -- that much felt good like being part of a unit. Besides, in a large group, navigating James was easy. He could be pleasant and friendly, enjoy seeing him, but ultimately keep his head down and get back to work. If he felt any more than that, he would tell himself what was the safest way to keep himself whole and employed was to leave the man be and try his best not to end up alone with him… And of course, if his imagination was really being insistent, he’d remind himself he’d seen James with the pretty fortune teller.

  
What confused him was downtime. James invited him to the movies with he and Wanda. (He demurred.) And there was the weekly poker game, which always, the invite to join came from James, and always, Steve begged off as politely as he could. All of it was quite casual and friendly, and parsing it out logically, Steve realized it must be him. His perception of it. He liked the rider, and so his mind was hyper tuned in to noticing him more than anyone else. That was all. If he kept at work, the crush would wear off and it would stop nagging at him. Just like if he kept at work, he could keep the tremors, the anxious episodes at bay.

  
He could make this work.

  
And then there was Darcy. If James’s appearances seemed frequent, Darcy’s were equally so, and Steve figured the same feelings that made him notice James had their mirror opposite working to make him overly aware of Darcy as well. She joined their table at meals, made jokes and invited  
him to Scrabble with Thor and Jane. “It helps his vocabulary. You get extra points for Norwegian curse words.”

  
The problem wasn’t that Darcy seemed to mind when he declined. She seemed completely un-phased. It was that there was a small voice in Steve telling him to say ‘yes’. If there was any doubt about what went on in his head or heart, wouldn’t going on a few dates with Lewis — maybe walking her across the lot on his arm on a Monday afternoon — put all that to rest?

He couldn’t do that though.. And he loathed himself for always feeling tempted by it.

No, the way to go was to walk his own invisible tightrope. Keep his head down. The novelty of the being the new guy would wear off and he would blend in.

  
It was early before their next matinee that Steve learned what it was Darcy and Jane did with the show.

  
“You saddle a horse?” It was the rowdy with the bowler hat, Steve now knew as Tim ‘Dum-dum’ Dugan.

“No, sir.”

“First time for everything. C’mon.” The larger man smacked his shoulder and waved for him to follow him behind the top.

A lot of Steve’s first exposure to jobs began like this, so he fell in line like a good soldier.

“Better you than me for this work, kid. No matter how much the public loves this gorgeous mug.” Now slightly worried, Steve hurried after him through a flap into an impromptu tack room. Dugan grabbed two small spangled bridles, both hackamores with no bits, one red and one blue. He thrust the blue one at Steve and continued through the flap to the menagerie. “They’re easy. Just do what I do.”

Steve watched the larger man flip the reigns over one of the Shetland pony’s heads and hold the horse by them, then lift the unbuckled bridle over the animal’s face. “There you are sweetheart.” With a stubby finger, he flicked the pony’s forelock out of the strap before its ears neatly. “Now you give it a go.” He told Steve.

The other pony saw Steve coming with the reigns and backed up a few steps. Steve froze. The small horse tossed its head.

“He don’t bite. Quit acting dodgy. Just fake being the professor, like I do.” Dugan laughed.

Several of the circus goers who were petting the animals over the fence had started to watch and point. And to Steve’s perfect horror, James was already out doing his humble groom routine and chatting with the crowd. He’d spotted Steve and turned around to watch the show, giving him a big grin and a thumbs up.

Fine. Steve unbuckled the hackamore so it was ready and gathered a loop in the reigns before striding up to the pony. It sidestepped quickly and u-turned behind the black mare. The crowd laughed.

Even Steve knew better than to chase it behind the rump of another horse.

Bucky whistled at him. “Here. Jack’s a pill. Catch.” He pitched something at Steve: a knob of carrot.

  
Gently pushing the mare aside, Steve clucked and wiggled the treat at the pony. Instantly the little horse jogged to him eagerly and while he crunched away, let Steve fumble through arranging the bridle on him.

As Steve and Dugan led the ponies out, he heard the rowdy mutter “Spoilsport,” at Bucky. The rider smiled sweetly and flipped him the bird where the crowd couldn’t see.

  
In the tack room, they decked the little horses out in matching red and blue saddles; tiny ones, covered in showy tooling, conchos and western fringe. Both had wide martingales with huge studs, and altogether they looked like miniature versions of the hero’s horse in a Tom Mix serial, covered in flashy parade gear to chase bandits across the dry dusty plains. Dumdum showed him how to tighten the girth and watch for the animal to blow out its stomach, making it looser, then snug it up again. “They’re good ponies, but they know all the tricks. Don’cha you little devil?” He rubbed  
Steve’s horse’s shaggy neck and the animal leaned into it, throwing its head in a big nod and blowing carrot flecked saliva across Steve’s pants.

After wiping down his front, he followed Dugan back out with his horse in tow, and quickly understood what their purpose was. A little rope corral had been constructed on the midway beside Wanda’s tent with a banner advertising “Pony Rides and Cowboy Photos with Jack and Jill”. Already there was a little group of parents with kids in tow, waiting.

Darcy looked out from behind a large camera and waved. “Great! Who’s first?”

Steve’s job was lifting kids onto the animals and leading them around the pen, making sure the excited ones didn’t flap or yank the reigns too hard on the little horses’ noses. Jane worked the crowd, taking photo orders with a big carbon receipt book. She had child-size cowboy hats, vests and chaps the kids would tug on before she posed them on whichever pony was free. Darcy, behind the camera, chattered and smiled at them, and pretended to shoot them with her fingers, always clutching her chest and dying ridiculously when they returned fire. She was a natural at cutting up  
to get them to smile for their picture — although most beamed just to be sitting on the pony — then began to wail when their turn was over and the illusion was stripped away.

“You’re good at this.” Jane told Steve as they swapped the reins of the animals for the next picture.

“Yeah?”

“Dugan’s too big and gruff. I think he scares them a little.” She seemed to see the pinch of his eyebrows and realized she’d just complimented him for being a shrimp. “No offense.”

“S’okay. Ought to be good for something.” He smiled. “Just don’t call me Tom Thumb though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She grinned.

At the next swap, Steve caught her eye again. “So who’s bright idea was this?”

“All Darcy.”

  
When the show started, Steve watered the ponies and helped tuck things away until they began again after the matinee. Watching Darcy run the money box to the office trailer, Jane picked up their conversation as though there was no pause. “Yeah, she saved up for the camera equipment in  
high school, and when I talked to her about touring with Thor, she came up with this. She splits it with the show since it’s their animals, but the whole idea for the blow off concession was her idea. She’s saving for college full time.”

Steve looked confused. “Blow off?”

“Sorry. Yeah, any add-on attraction separate from a show ticket. Like a sideshow? If they pay extra it’s a blow off. Don’t ask me why.” She shrugged. “All of this is pretty strange to me too.”

Steve smiled at this and Jane bumped shoulders with him.

  
By the time the light was failing and the evening show's opening fanfare could be heard, Steve and Jane were flopped out on the ground by the water bucket, letting the ponies wander the rope pen and nibble grass. Darcy hunched over an apple crate desk by her camera, counting up the orders and money. “Holy Schmoly…” She riffled through the numbers again. “Today was great! You are a good luck charm!”

Jane lifted her head and gave her a wry look. “Luck charm?”

“Yeah, everyone on the lot says so, and we made all the cabbage.” She pointed at Steve. “Tomorrow night, the four of us. No argument. Movie and steak dinner.”

“I couldn’t…”

“Yes, you can! C’mon. You’ve got apple caramel on your butt and cotton candy in your hair. You earned it!”

“She has a point.” Jane flicked some pink from his sticky hair.

“Okay, sure. Sounds like fun.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old-timey stuff notes!  
Pony photos! Somewhere in my mom's albums, there's a snap of my uncle Cradus as a cowboy on a Shetland pony. In the 40's and 50's (I have NO IDEA when it started) there were businesses that traveled door to door offering to take your child's photo in cowboy gear on a little horse. Once you ordered, your photo would come in the mail. Where I live, there was even a man doing it quite recently with a tame longhorn and Brahma bull at outdoor events. (We got a snap of my granny, but she wouldn't sit on the Longhorn, only stand next to him.) If you are a listener to This American Life,  
there's a sad episode about a man wanting to clone his pet Brahma bull -- that's the guy! Anyway, all this was the inspiration for Darcy's set up. Also, if you google for vintage images of these shoots, they are frackin' adorable. 
> 
> The molasses "coffee" that Steve is given by the cook: Blackstrap molasses was something that enjoyed a run as a superfood in the 30's and 40's. Groucho Marx even wrote a novelty song about it, making fun of people thinking it was a cure-all. While there's a lot of hype, it is true that it is a good source of iron and magnesium. Probably due to the magnesium, making it into a drink with hot water was a common household remedy touted to ease battle fatigue following both WWI and WWII.


	9. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learns about Clint and Bucky's primary hobby. Bucky learns he may have had his head up his ass a bit.

* * *

Early Monday, before Steve even made it to the cook tent, he heard a shrill whistle.

  
“Rogers! Dernier! Over here!” Happy waved from the back gate of the lot where a truck was idling. Steve jogged over in time to see Happy open the gate and wave the truck in, the vehicle loaded with alfalfa bails. “Let’s get this stowed.” Hap pulled his straw hat down over this receding hairline against the morning sun.

Steve fell in line with Dernier, another rowdy, to the new canvas fly that had replaced the old menagerie cover.

When Happy shoved the canvas back and tied it, Steve could see Bucky in the horse pen, already clearing manure and filling water troughs. Seeing Steve, Bucky smiled and put his bucket down to wave. Steve waved back, his brain becoming a tangle at the act when he thought of his evening plans with Darcy.

Luckily, Happy interrupted, handing him some hay hooks and the three men made short work of unloading and stacking the bails.

The black mare and the draft horse stepped eagerly over to the gate separating them, and stretched their necks, nostrils flared curiously at the scent of fresh feed.

As they took a breather from the sweaty task standing in the shade of the canvas, to Steve’s surprise, Happy yanked out a fist full of alfalfa for the draft horse and slapped its neck affectionately. “Oscar, how are you old man?”

“He’d be a lot better if you weren’t asking him to founder.” Bucky sniffed, frowning at the treat.

Happy smirked at Bucky. “He’s fine. You got more to fear from some brat giving him Cracker Jacks.” Happy wiped horse slobber on his pants and began hunting his pockets for a handkerchief that wasn’t there. “You at the table tonight?” He asked Dernier.

The rowdy nodded. “Tony owes me. I’ll take it out of him somehow between now and payday.”

“Hey Steve, you playing poker tonight?” James's eyes seemed way too big and hopeful at this, then they darted to Happy quickly and his smile crooked slightly at the corners.

Confused, Steve stumbled on his words as he cut a glance at Hap. “Ah, I’ve got plans tonight…” Hogan had shoved his hat back revealing a band of vivid blue glitter on his freckled forehead.

Dernier had noticed too but managed to stay neutral. “You don’t want in on this.” He told Steve. “Tonight’s a grudge match anyway.”

“Nonsense!” Happy wiped a rivulet of sparkling sapphire blue perspiration from his temple and patted Oscar the draft horse’s neck again before turning away and not seeing the dazzling smear he left on the animal. “His money is as good as the next guy’s to take. Screw this, where’s the coffee?” He strode off.

The three men each looked at each other silently, confirming what they’d seen, then as quietly as they could, followed after Hogan to the cook tent.

The first to find Clint and Natasha at a table, Bucky signed something to them, and Clint immediately twisted and craned his neck to watch the cooks’ reaction to Happy trying to get his chow.

Steve didn’t dare get in line next to the big man, so he sat and huddled over his coffee, watching as whispers and snickers spread like wildfire down the table row. Darcy and Jane were very close to the service line and apparently got an eye full of how things had progressed on Hogan’s face. To their credit, they kept passable straight expressions, but as soon as he was gone, they immediately looked to Clint and Bucky and fell over the table, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Jane sat up first, mouthing words silently with a few signs that even Steve could make out: “His hatband?”

Clint nodded eagerly, his face a mask of silent joy.

Darcy and Jane both gave him thumbs up, then saw Happy turn with his food and immediately dropped their hands on the table and pretended to talk to Thor. Hogan was blue to his eyebrows with big smears down both cheeks near his ears. One eye was circled like an uncoordinated child had finger painted it.

Steve stole a glance at Bucky, who was wiping his mouth and shoving back from the table. So was Clint, both ready to run, but not before James gave Steve another mischievous grin… Sam assessed the situation with a calm trained eye, then began under his breath, “five, four, three two…”

“What the — God damn it! BARTON. BARNES!”

* * *

  
Steve was not stupid or oblivious.

Not in the sense that he refused to entertain the thought that James’s smiles and attentions might mean what he was terrified they might. While he wasn’t the most strapping scrap of manhood, there were the type that preferred him for his smaller more delicate size. He’d been hit on before.

Jesus, the army might as well be a bit like prison in that respect. So maybe James was overly friendly to him out of gratitude for rescuing his horse, or maybe it was actual flirting…

What the hell did Natasha mean with that crack about James’s hope chest anyway?

Oh god. If that meant what he thought, if that meant it really was flirting, then James Barnes was also a blithe idiot with no sense of self-preservation and he’d get both of them beat to shit or worse. No, it was too much. Terrifying. He had a job now. He needed to keep things on the level. He couldn’t bring himself to snub or pick a fight with the rider — they needed to work together, and Jesus wept, the last thing he wanted was to hurt James in any way…

Fuck. But maybe that’s why he’d told Darcy yes. If James didn’t have good sense, Steve would have it for him. Word would get around he’s taking Lewis out and James would catch on and drop it, and the two of them would stay safe, avoid getting fired, or getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of them or much much worse.

But sweet Christ, he didn’t want to. When he worked at something repetitive or dull, his mind would go back and replay seeing Bucky’s performance the first time. Or the way he’d gently handled Steve when he spent the night in James’s trailer. He thought about that night a lot, and the feelings it stirred were a deep dark well of warmth, wonder and a bottomless ache of longing. It was like missing home.

And he had so many questions about James. How did he join the circus? What happened to his arm? Was he in combat too? He certainly didn’t act like anyone Steve had seen survive such an injury. Steve had ample opportunity as he worked to quiz Pepper or Wanda or even Clint when he helped wash the dogs, but he pointedly didn’t. He didn’t want to also seem interested in Bucky.

That was not a safe thing to do.

* * *

  
Another thing that wasn’t safe to do was to be Clint Barton, laughing his ass off and running pellmell from Stark’s pissed off heavy/bouncer/whatever the heck Happy’s title was.

He could walk a slack line, balance on barrels or the top of a milk bottle, and ride a unicycle with the utmost grace and ease, then turn around and clothesline himself on a tent guideline, or stub his toe in such a unique way it also broke his arm and nose. When they went to town, his smart mouth managed to open right next to the guy who had drunk just enough to drown his sense of humor or was known by everyone else to be spoiling for a fight, and Barton would get his clock cleaned or be the one tossed in jail overnight. It was a special Friday the thirteenth kind of talent.

Dr. Banner had a ledger where he tallied Barton’s injuries against the rest of the performers altogether, and Clint was still firmly in the lead. By many points.

So he wasn’t the least bit surprised when on a Monday, the dog man’s day off no less, Banner found himself stitching up a fair sized gash in Barton’s left butt cheek.

Natasha and Bucky had helped him hobble over to find Banner outside his trailer and Sam noticed and joined them out of morbid curiosity.

“Happy do that?” Sam tilted his head at the wound as Clint lay over a chair, pants down, rump up.

“Pitchfork,” Clint grunted. One of his dogs trotted up and proceeded to wash his face since it was in reach.

“He got you with a pitchfork?” Sam whistled a bit. “He’s stepping it up.”

“Hell no. He took a swing at me and I ducked and fell on the pitchfork. Jerk cornered me in the menagerie. I told you to put the tools away.” He grumbled at Bucky.

James frowned, not listening. “He smiled at me during breakfast. You think that was just because of the, you know?” He gestured to his face like he was smearing it. “Or do you think maybe?”

“Hogan smiled?” Now Sam was just confused.

“Steve smiled?” Natasha clarified, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t. Do not encourage or get him started.” Clint pleaded.

Dr. Banner irrigated the tear with something antiseptic making Clint flinch and squirm. “I’m putting a stitch in this.” He added, seemingly ignoring the other discussion.

“Yes, Steve.” Bucky’s head swung to Natasha, wide eyes pinning her to the spot. “He doesn’t always.” He explained, now pointing his naked earnestness at Sam, who fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Here we go…” Clint sighed.

“It’s like he won’t look at me when it’s just me and him. He ducks out. When we’re all together, he’s fine… but if I run into him on the lot, or ask him to cards, zip! He’s gone. I don’t get it.”

Clint twisted uncomfortably on his side to glare at him. “Jesus Buck, you spoon fed him like you were his mam. He’s probably just embarrassed is all. That, and you’re not exactly subtle, tripping all over yourself like an eager puppy. I told you, let the man find his feet and breathe.”

“Also, maybe most guys aren’t used to other fellas being moony over them out in the open?” This from Nat.

“What? The devil you say!” Sam gasped, hand to chest, and Natasha cuffed the back of his head.

Bruce cleared his throat. “James? You are aware the man saw combat, right?”

“Yeah? I mean, he did?”

“Yes.”

Bucky puffed up a little, looking defensive, eyes searching over the older man. “Okay. Sure. But he’s back now. It’s over.” He looked around as though wanting the others to back him up. “I mean, he’s okay, and what? Do I look like Hitler or something?”

Clint dropped his head back over the seat of the chair and shook it slowly. “Jesus Chicken Fried Christ…”

Sam’s eyes sailed skyward and Natasha took his elbow to drag him off before he could open his mouth.

“What I mean is,” Dr. Banner continued patiently, “It might have nothing to do with whether or not he likes you as a friend or, um, otherwise. It may be hard for him to be pals — to open up. He may feel safer in group or work settings where he knows what’s expected or what’s going to happen. You gotta respect that.”

Barnes sputtered at this. “You think he doesn’t feel safe? Look, you know me! I do great with spooked animals. I’ve always been able to read them.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, James…”

Clint climbed up, gripped the rider’s shoulder and gave it a solid squeeze and shake. “Listen, you jackass. Shell shock is a bit different than a skittish colt. Okay?”

Barnes's eyes went from Bruce’s to Clint’s and back. He almost looked frightened.

  
“Hey, you gotta get to the horses. But come find me later.” Bruce’s voice was kind. “I can tell you some more of what I’ve learned about residual trauma. I really don’t think it’s you. Alright?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

* * *

  
James chewed on this exchange the rest of the day as he took care of the horses then did the most monotonous and tedious job he could find — cleaning and oiling their tack. Clint and Natasha vanished together after Barton’s rump was declared patched up, and for this Buck was grateful, not  
wanting them to make him feel any more ashamed than he already did…

Finally leaving the menagerie, he looked across the back of the trailers where most of the trucks were parked, trying to keep a wary eye out for Happy. Then he jogged over behind Wanda’s tent before checking his flank and beginning to relax. Hap had probably already gone to town on errands or to get away…

He saw Steve appear from the trailer row with some laundry and watched the smaller man head for the wash area. Behind the trailers, a truck was grinding tires to turn in the dirt, then backfired loudly.

Steve hit the ground, hands over his head, knees pulled up, shaking.

There was no one else out on the lot to see. Steve trembling in the dust for no reason...

Buck’s heart fell into his shoes.

After a moment, like a turtle emerging, Steve uncurled, staggered up, glancing around furtively and hurriedly gathered up the laundry. But instead of continuing to the wash area, he shoved it under he and Scott’s trailer, then hurried in a different direction: towards the side of the menagerie.

What the?

James slipped after him and saw him vanish through the side flap, hands hovering forward with a weird urgency.

Very quietly, James pushed under the canvas near where the new bails had been unloaded that morning. With these for cover, he peeked over at the horse pen.

Steve was in the pen, at the front shoulder of the black mare while she calmly went about eating. He had his hands spread on her side and was forehead down against her, eyes pinched shut, leaning on this wall of horse. Bucky couldn’t hear what he was whispering to himself. But after a few minutes, Steve’s face relaxed and his breathing deepened, though he didn’t move from where he rested against the horse.

Swallowing hard, James slid down and scooted back out under the canvas again as silently as he could and gave them their privacy.

* * *

  
Around five o’clock, Steve inspected the shine on his shoes and folded a fresh handkerchief in his pocket.

“Think this is okay?”

Since having a paycheck, Steve had bought some more clothes. But he’d gotten utilitarian things, not stuff for going out. Some coveralls, denim work shirts, and a warm shearling jacket. He’d put on the one white shirt he had from Peter, a tie from Scott, new cuffed pants (they were too long for him) and the new coat. All of it felt weird compared to what he normally wore and he felt himself wishing his uniform was still in one piece instead of worn to hell and missing the jacket.

“You look swell.” Scott told him. “And don’t sweat it a bit — it’s not Hollywood.”

Steve grinned despite himself. Failed burglar or not, Scott was a good guy.

It was blue dusk as Steve made his way to Jane and Thor’s van, the autumn air already chilly and smelling like wood smoke and exhaust from someone’s generator.

Seeing the other three come out of their trailer, Steve wondered why he’d been so worried about the formalness of his outfit. The girl’s looked nice, in dresses Steve had seen before, but with their hair a little fancier, protected in scarves and a little more red lipstick. The only thing approaching glad rags was that Darcy sported a jacket with a soft grey rabbit fur collar, but Jane had on the same plain long camel coat she wore on the lot. Thor was dressed about like Steve, but in better fitting clothes, and with a wool peacoat that made him look about the size of a navy destroyer.

“Oh, you clean up nice.” Darcy grinned seeing him.

Steve looked down. “Uh, Thanks.”

“You mind driving?” Jane asked jingling her keys.

“Not at all.” He caught them and followed as Jane led the way to their truck.

“Race you.” Darcy grinned and ran ahead, bubbling with energy and vanished among the dust of other cars leaving and the still parked vehicles. “Hey Barnes! Barnes!”

Oh no. Steve felt his chest go tight and cold. He and the others rounded a panel van to see her wave at Bucky.

“Who’re you going into town with? Clint?”

James's eyes were wide. “Oh, uh, no…”

Darcy bounced happily and tossed her head toward their truck. “Then c’mon with us! We’re going someplace called Ruby’s to shove steak in our face and then to the late movie.”

Steve saw Bucky’s eyes land on him and he somehow managed a smile.

“You’re more than welcome Barnes.” Jane smiled.

To Steve’s relief, Bucky straightened up and grinned. “Steak huh?"

“Word is, you eat the 72 ounce one in under an hour and it’s free. We’re bringing in a ringer.” Darcy waggled her eyebrows and jumped up to slap Thor’s shoulders.

Steve’s heart was starting to hammer. It was one thing to go out with Darcy and another to have James watch the whole thing…

…And Bucky definitely looked piqued at tagging along… “What movie are you seeing?”

Jane smirked wryly, then intoned in a spooky voice, “The Uninvited!”

“Hey! Don’t make fun! I love ghost stories!” Darcy sidled up to Steve and linked arms with him, giving it a squeeze. “It’s supposed to be terrifying!”

James kept smiling and nodded. “Wow, yeah, that sounds great,” He took a long look away over the parking area. “But I was actually supposed to help Bruce with some errands. Thanks though.”

Steve watched him flash another winning smile at the women, and duck away.

* * *

The slap on the side of his truck before he pulled out made Bruce jump. But when he braked and saw it was James leaning in the passenger window, his frown softened.

“Dr. Banner? You going to town?”

“Yes, James. You need something?”

“An errand. And… … Could I take you up on that talk?”

* * *

I apologize for the quality of this image. Since so much happens in the cook tent where characters get thrown together, I wanted to post a snap of one. This is from E.J. Kelty, who shot absolutely amazeballs large format photos of the big shows in the 20s and 30s. There's a great coffee table book of his circus work, Step Right This Way, that this is from, but it's too big for me to get on my scanner, so I snapped a phone shot. This is a massive Ringling-Barnum cook house. Antonio's is nowhere near as big, but it shows how much trouble they went to to make circus travel not feel like an extended camping trip -- table clothes, china dishes and such.

This is probably closer to the size of Antonio's show's cook house tent, so I included it. Several people online were playing detective trying to id what was going on here. The photographer is  
unknown, someone said it's from 1949, and if you look closely at the left, you can see welding equipment, a forge with chimney and an anvil next to the guy sitting. Many shows had their own welding outfits to do equipment, tent and vehicle repairs onsite, so that's the best guess. One person even pointed out the repeated white spots of damage to the tent cover and mentioned that  
looked like a hot ember got folded in when the canvas was taken down for travel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Uninvited came out a bit before this takes place, but lots of movies were replayed if that happened to be what a theater could get a hold of or had on hand for a scary late show. Also, the attic room in the haunted house used for an art studio is a big part of the story, so I thought that would press Steve's buttons a little. :)
> 
> Hope you're enjoying it and the notes aren't too annoying!


	10. Date Night con't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky have very different experiences on their night off.

* * *

Ruby’s Steak House was the sort of place upscale enough to have stemmed water goblets and white tablecloths, but still be decorated with things like wagon wheel chandeliers and crossed branding irons on the walls. As Steve helped Darcy out of her coat, he panned the room, taking it all in: amber textured glass and turned oak dividers breaking up the large main dining room, a wide bar area crowned with a mounted longhorn’s head overlooking it, both areas abuzz with the dinner crowd.

“Ah, this looks great,” Darcy smiled approvingly. “What’d ya think his name is?” She elbowed Steve and pointed to the bull.

“He looks like a Winston to me,” Jane said.

“Ferdinand. He just wanted to smell the flowers.” Steve suggested.

“Aw… Don’t make me feel bad about dinner!”

Other than diners and drugstore lunch counters, Ruby’s was the first real restaurant Steve had been in since the war. He was surprised to realize a meal, slow for enjoyment and with conversation as a social event, felt like foreign territory, and he was at loose ends wanting a defined objective to accomplish. He focused on manners, seating Darcy first and not sitting until Thor did the same for Jane.

The host, hearing that Thor was taking on the ridiculous 72oz steak, seated them at a central table in the dining room, and Steve’s neck tightened and stomach knotted a little. His companions might be used to being on display, but he definitely wasn’t.

Also, the menu didn’t have prices. He frowned, turning it over until he heard Jane snicker. “You got the date menu. Moneybags over there has yours.”

Darcy grinned and held it out of his reach. “Get whatever you want. It’ll be our little end of season party.”

“What are you having?”

“Porterhouse. And if you get the pork chops or a dinky filet mignon, I’m gonna punch you.”

Steve smiled despite himself. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

  
They stopped at a drug store, Bruce with a list for the pharmacist of first aid and medical supplies he needed to restock, and Bucky to pick up the usual personal odds and ends like razors and toothpaste. It didn’t take long for James to find and collect what he needed, but Banner was still deep in discussion with the lab-coated clerk helping him back at the drug counter… The rider drifted over to the comics and magazines and picked up one with a fanciful rainbow submarine being attacked by a giant squid on the cover. But the painting on the outside oversold the quality of the interior. The story was wooden and the little bit of Steve’s artwork James had seen, looked so much better than this.

Stuffing the comic back in the rack, he noticed beside the pulps a display of stationery and office supplies. Bucky perked up, leafing past the appointment and composition books until he found some cloth-bound books with cream unlined pages. Perfect. He selected one with a deep blue  
cover and a box of Ticonderoga pencils.

“All done. You find what you needed?” Bruce finally joined Bucky at the front counter, toting a box of supplies.

Bucky tucked his purchases, carefully wrapped in a brown sack, up under his arm. “Yep. All set.”

* * *

  
“So, how’d you end up with Lang?”

Steve didn’t understand. “What do you mean? I thought it was just space.”

Jane nodded. “Ostensibly, sure. But he’s a hermit and Darcy and I have a bet that it was something Clint did.”

“Something stupid.” Darcy clarified helpfully.

“Uh. No.” Steve looked back and forth at them apologetically. “Hate to disappoint. Why would you think that?”

Darcy laughed so hard she coughed.

“Really? You do not notice the scars?” Thor raised an eyebrow.

“Wait, you mean something like with Hap and the glitter makeup?”

“YES.” Both women said at once and Thor chortled at this.

Steve considered. “Nah. Nothing like that.”

Thor leaned in and told Steve seriously. “Francis has the accidents.”

“A lot of accidents,” Jane said.

“Francis?”

Darcy giggled. “Francis ‘Clint’ Barton. Feel free to call him by it sometime. Anyway, yeah. Clint’s a legend. Supposedly, he’s why Antonio keeps Bruce on the payroll. He’s broken pretty much everything, like twice.”

Jane sighed. “And no common sense. He bent to tie his shoe next to the hydraulics truck. And he’s deaf, so he couldn’t hear the rowdies yelling at him. Release arm gave him a concussion and dislocated his shoulder.”

Thor nodded. “Barnes and Antonio’s horses are all very sweet, like kittens right? But somehow, he’s under them and gets stepped on.”

“He stayed up drinking one night with Circus Chimera — show from Mexico City. He’s having a ball, ready to join their act or do whatever with those guys. Turns out he got the bright idea to try the Globe of Death with them, you know, because he likes motorcycles and he doesn’t understand a lick of Spanish.”

Steve gave Darcy a quizzical look. “Globe of Death?”

She swallowed a gulp of soda. “Mm. Right. It’s a steel cage.” She spread her manicured fingers as though holding a cantaloupe. “Big sphere. Then they throw a couple motorcycles in it to play Mix Master. Super loud. And sometimes they drag chains for the sparks…”

“It’s impressive,” Jane interrupted. “But the speed and spinning in it — it screws up your equilibrium. Riders blackout or at least have their vision grey out or go pinpoint. I think the strategy is just to hang on and pray.”

Darcy looked a little wistful. “That was the first time I heard Tony speak Italian. Him screaming at them to get him out of that thing.”

Steve snickered, fascinated. He couldn’t picture dapper Antonio losing his composure at all. “Did he make a loop?”

“Only one,” Thor told him sadly.

  
By the time the food began to arrive, Steve was more relaxed and enjoying himself. The women liked gossiping about Clint, which segued into him being able to ask about different equipment and acts in the show. It occurred to him that maybe he could ask something about Bucky's performance, and that might take off somewhere interesting without him seeming too invested, but he couldn't think of the right opening... Instead, he tried asking if the miniature horses belonged to Thor and learned they were Tony's. Also, that Scott had a welding rig and had designed and built the little towers and ramps for their pony lifting stunt.

“He’s an artist,” Jane told Steve.

“He made us weigh the horses,” Thor said gravely, and Steve couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or in awe of this.

“Yeah, okay. So he’s an engineer. Kind of a perfectionist.” Jane conceded. “But anything he makes is indestructible.”

“Holy smoke! What monster did you cut this from?” Darcy had just seen Thor’s massive steak as it was set down. “You guys have a brontosaurus in the back?”

“A breeding pair.” The waiter told her with a wink.

Both the host and manager came with enormous meat slab's delivery and Steve cringed when they announced the challenge to the room. “A contender has one hour and must join Ruby’s Clean Plate Club finishing all the sides. Let’s give him some encouragement everyone!”

Thor beamed easily and raised his glass to the room when the other diners clapped for him, clearly enjoying it. Steve’s hands went cold and he took a couple slow breaths, knowing the attention would peter out in a moment and wondering why it bothered him.

“Do you have any questions?” The manager asked.

Thor thrust his mug at him. “Another beer, please?”

* * *

  
“It’s not necessarily noise in general, but loud or sudden noises, or ones that mimic weaponry. Might keep that in mind with New Years or 4th of July fireworks. But other things — seemingly random things can trigger a flashback. Smells. Sometimes songs or the sight of certain objects. It’s not really something you can predict or control for.” Banner explained.

The doctor had selected a quiet diner for dinner and the pair had finished their patty melts and BLTs before Bucky began asking questions. “So what do you do if it’s that? Something random?”

“Be calm. Like you are with the horses. See if you can reassure him or get him somewhere familiar or safe feeling. And I should be talking to him about how he handles himself. There are breathing exercises and things he can do to help when he panics.”

James liked that. That Steve could do things to help himself. That was the worst feeling Bucky’d had; that he would be hung up, stuck, unable to do certain things on his own. In his case, it hadn’t lasted long. Sure there was little stuff like he let Wanda do his nails, but even that he could manage  
with the file tacked down to a countertop. Pretty much any of it just took some strategy… Still, the physical body was different than the mind, the nerves. “This though… I mean, it’s not what you hear people talking about with, uh, shell shock.” Bucky gestured around them, indicating their lives. “I mean, it’s literally a circus.”

Banner laughed a little.“Okay, yeah. I hear you. And there’s a lot of thought that an environment like Antonio’s is a bad idea. You know, the whole peaceful quiet place out in the country schtick?” Bruce pushed his glasses up.

James frowned but nodded to show he understood what Bruce meant. He’d been carted off to the boonies to convalesce himself once upon a time.

The doctor cleared his throat softly. “But I disagree with that completely.”

James sat up a little straighter at this.

“There are several things that impede soldiers returning to civilian life and a big one is meaningful, interesting, engaging work. With the show, Steve’s been happy to do a jillion different things that need to be done. That kind of constructive distraction is perfect. And he gets to see the use and results —immediate feedback. Gets him out of his head and gives him tons of new experiences or skills.”

Here, the waitress checked in and Bruce paused to order them pie and coffee before continuing, “Another thing — the military does things with a hierarchy, as a team, and on a mission basis. A lot of soldiers have trouble with losing that structure. Or in work, they’re used to working together  
through a mission or project to completion. Not stopping at 5 pm and coming back in the morning only Monday through Friday.”

Bucky knew where this line of thought was going and began grinning a little. Bruce smiled. “Right, so yes, funny thing, the show sort of operates the same way. I think that structural familiarity is helpful for him to transition back.”

None of what the doctor was telling him was the doom and gloom James had expected. In fact, all of it sounded perfectly reasonable and manageable. If the whole issue was that James approaching him made him feel singled out, separate from the rank and file, well that was no big deal. He could correct that until Steve felt more at home. No problem!

Presently, the waitress arrived with their coffee and slices of the lemon pie and seemed to think Bucky’s puppy wiggle and bright grin was just for her bringing dessert. “You enjoy that, hon.” Her smile seemed to suggest she was resisting the urge to pinch his cheek.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bruce huffed a small laugh, but when she was gone, he leaned over the table. “So, all of that is the good news. But there’s the dicey side we need to talk about too.”

* * *

  
“So… You. Tony’s got you running all over. What do you think? You like the work? Want to stay with showbiz?”

Steve blinked and paused from his eating. He knew Jane was just making conversation, but  
strangely, he flashed on his thoughts the night he first watched the trapeze act… Thinking of flying  
out into black, hands outstretched— for what exactly?

He huffed a laugh trying to sound light. “I like being busy.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s all interesting. But I don’t know. I don’t really know what I’m doing yet.” His eyes flashed  
over the other three faces and he worried he was going to slip into something too deep or heavy.

Did it show?

Thor put his fork and knife down. “Jane will put you in school and Darcy will pick every class. Do not listen to them too much Steven.” He said gravely. “You have a job and place, so you don’t have to know now.”

“Here’s to knowing nothing!” Darcy raised her root beer.

Thor clinked glasses with her and Jane smiled at Steve and patted his arm. “You’ll figure stuff out.”

* * *

  
Bruce told James about Steve’s incident with his landlady. He did so with several admonitions that this was in total confidence, and when he got done, he had a hard time reading the rider’s face. James said nothing, so the doctor continued. “Irritability. A temper, violent responses are all  
typical. They can lose time or check out — go into a kind of shock or fugue. Being touched can be a trigger. Many things people think of as comforting might not be -- like hugging could feel like restraint. I’m not saying that that’s the case with Steven, but it can take months, sometimes even years for all the symptoms of trauma to emerge. It would be naive to not remember what happened with his landlady. He clearly doesn’t want to be that person, but those impulses are there and he’ll have to deal with them and work to manage them. It’s not easy — drinking, substance abuse are all common among boys like him coming back…

“Which brings me to the other important thing.”

Bucky shifted uneasily but waited.

“James, you were pretty much raised in showbiz, right? Have you dated much?”

The rider shrugged. “I took some gals out when Clint wanted to double.”

“You know what I mean.”

James huffed a laugh. “Nah. I mean, a couple of Antonio’s old clown buddies are, you know. They’d take me to the bars in New York when I did winter shows. Danced with a few guys. They were nice enough, but I think this,” He gestured to his empty left sleeve, “Bothered them. And during the season, we’re small and on the road mostly, and the rest of the time I try to get ma and the girls out or I go home.” He finished glumly.

“Do you even know if Steven likes men?”

James sighed. “This some sort of takes one to know one joke?”

“I mean it in all seriousness. No hunches or hoping.” Banner said to him evenly.

“I don’t know.” The rider admitted. “It’s all hunches and hoping.”

“So… For the sake of argument, let’s say he does. He wasn’t brought up in a permissive or accepting environment like you. Might not have ever even been around someone who admitted to being homosexual. It is much more likely that he’s deep in denial or determined to hide it to protect himself — and you combine that with the nerves and trauma of what he’s experienced… James, it is extremely likely that even if he does like you, if pressure was put on him to say or do something about it with all the other unknowns around him…”

“He’d lose it.”

“He could blow up. Fight with you to prove he’s not perhaps, but almost certainly abandon the show. And right now he needs a job and stable friends. Not a date. You know what I’m saying?”

“Sure doc.” James nodded, frowning at the empty dishes in front of him.

  
Riding back to the lot, it was on the tip of Bucky’s tongue to tell Bruce about what he’d seen with Steve and the black mare. To ask him about that… But he found he couldn’t. In light of calmly, rationally considering what the doctor had said, what was going on there made perfect sense to Barnes. The mare was solid, nonjudgmental and calm. He found the horses, even goofy Tycho’s, presences soothing, so it followed that Steve might use one as a confidant or a security blanket. Probably Banner would confirm this, but then what? If Bucky had to abandon his romantic hopes for Steve’s own good, maybe it was selfish, but he could keep this one private secret of the soldier for himself. And besides, if he told the doctor, what if that meant Banner might mention it to Antonio and how awful would it be for Steve if it got out that he snuck around to cling to a horse like his personal teddy bear?

He fingered the brown parcel in his lap wondering about the gift he’d just bought. He’d thought of it as another reason to go to Steve’s trailer and maybe talk a little… He’d imagined unwrapping it might get a surprised and pleased smile; a thought that made Bucky’s middle swell with hopeful  
warmth… Swallowing, he pushed those thoughts down. He’d figure out some other, no pressure way to give it to him. Maybe quick and casual and among everyone at the cook tent. Just tell him Tycho says thanks and was sorry his other book got damaged. Or even ask someone else to do it? He’d figure it out what was the right way to do it.

When he got back to his trailer, Clint was still out with Natasha, but there was a letter sitting on his bunk. Inside the envelope he found a note from Wanda:

“James, I have spoken to several, and the dead are not close to Steven. There are only a few that will go near him because he is clouded. They say his soul is beating against something like a fly on a windowpane and they don’t know how to ease it. That’s as much as they will say about it. But, and I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I have seen his hands. I can’t help reading any hands I come across, but it’s a matter of privacy to only discuss it with that person if they ask. So you understand me, this is top secret. Anyway, his love line lists like yours. Whether he would act on it, I couldn’t say, but it is like yours. Your friend, W”

James folded the note back into the envelope and kicked off his boots. He rolled fully dressed into the bunk and burrowed under the blanket, his hand pushing the letter under his pillow before knuckling a few bitter tears from his eyes.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to formally apologize to Ispeakparseltongue for making Bucky sad in this chapter. Actually, I'd like to apologize to everyone. Please feel free to go take James ice cream and hugs.
> 
> Also, kitche stuff: I did contract driving like car delivery for extra income before this dang quarantine. A while back after getting a delivery to Dumas TX, I actually had the opportunity to go to the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo, which inspired Ruby's. OMG. Someone at my group's table took the challenge so I got to witness the contest from start to finish. Faced with it in person, a 72 oz steak is a comically obscene size piece of meat and it would take Thor to finish it!


	11. Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I completely fell off on getting a chapter up each day. The uncertainty is playing hell with my depression and motivation. I'm sure some of you are having the same fun effects and I'm so sorry. Fair warning, this chapter gets a bit sad and includes an anxiety event of Steve's.

* * *

Steve enjoyed the rest of the dinner. The three were good company; Darcy so bright, playful and confident and Thor with his big inquisitive and entitled aura — the strong man smiled at everyone staring at him and never shied at asking or answering the simplest questions. He generally asked  
what idioms meant and those around him typically asked what he weighed, could lift or he ate. Steve supposed if you were the size of a barn, there was no point in being a shrinking violet even when you were a stranger in a strange land. No, Thor behaved as if everyone was a friend he was  
just meeting and it was a privilege to bask in one another’s company. As alien as that was to Steven, he had to admit, it was also… cute. He could see why it charmed Jane, and she so even and rational and very bookish -- they complimented each other well.

Early in the evening he couldn’t help wondering if he was being too quiet, or thinking that he was probably boring Darcy. But it all felt so left-footed to him now. If it had just been him and Scott or some of the rowdies going out would it be easier? It probably wouldn’t make much difference. He  
needed to relearn how to do civilian things. How to relax…

When the food arrived he felt better. The conversation shifted to the meal, letting each other sample bites, and then finally, to just admiring the methodical efficiency of Thor easily, and with obvious pleasure, packing away his steak, dinner roll, baked potato and asparagus tips. By the time the giant was in the home stretch, the rest of the dining room was watching too.

As Thor finished and set his knife and fork across the empty platter, applause erupted, and the strong man grinned, waved to everyone and stood to shake the manager's hand before they took his picture for the challenge winners wall. He even passed out some of the gold circus passes and signed a menu. Clearly, he was born for show business, Steve thought.

  
The thing Steve feared the most on the date was whether or not Darcy would push for some contact like hand holding or maybe his arm during the movie. Some girls he dated, especially teens, rushed into this sort of thing as a matter of course, but to his relief, Darcy was more circumspect. She  
seemed to read his energy level and took her cues from it, still being jokey and energetic, but not forward or pushy. Like her photo business, it pointed up her intelligence and maturity and Steve understood why she and Jane were friends even with the age difference. He’d never been so  
together, much less at her age. Impressed, he also felt terrible for his earlier thoughts of taking her out as a cover to make himself look normal. He liked Darcy, wished he could match her cheerful spirit, but it was all just friendly. He felt no giddy hope or desire. No spark or enthusiasm. He’d known he was screwed up even before the war, but now, thinking about how twisted his desires were — he missed the close stink and camaraderie of the boys in his units, all of them blown to bits, shot, or lost. Only he survived.

During the movie, he found his mind wandering, unable to focus. That happened a lot. Darcy, earlier, fishing for conversation topics, tried asking him about what he was reading. Scott had offered him books too. And he tried. Really he did. He used to love reading for pleasure, but now  
he’d go a page or two and realize he had no idea what he’d just read, or he’d muster all his focus only to realize how forced the effort was. He couldn’t get interested or invested. Even that sort of escape didn’t work for him now and he couldn’t understand why.

When they returned to the lot, he walked Darcy back to Thor and Jane’s trailer, gave her a little hug and thanked her for dinner.

“You’ll help again with the ponies?”

“If you want me to, you bet.”

“Peachy.”

  
And that was all.

  
Returning to his trailer, Scott was already asleep, mouth open, one arm dangling off the side of the upper bunk. Steve undressed quietly and slid into bed, resisting the urge to lift Lang’s hanging limb back up and tuck it under the covers. Steve had no siblings, and he wondered if it was fallout from his training, his closeness to his unit, but he thought he’d have liked to have a brother like Scott. Maybe if Scott had been his kid brother, Steve would have set him straight before he’d tried his ridiculous heist and gotten exiled from his daughter? He huffed a dry laugh at the thought. That  
would take more of a magic genie than Tony plus a time machine to boot. Lang was a decade or more older than he was…

Laying in the dark, his thoughts shifted to James. How old was he? About Steve’s age. He remembered Jane and Thor linking arms in the theater, and funny enough, Thor leaning his massive head onto Jane’s petite shoulder. It struck Steve, thinking about the rider now, wouldn’t that be nice? Bucky resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, or against his chest. Warm, peaceful and slow… to rub the planes of his back and neck, finger comb his brown waves back from his face or hold him snug in his arms somewhere safe where no one could see. Often Steve wondered if so much of the tightness and pain in his body would be relieved just to touch and be touched.

* * *

  
Clint noted in the days that followed after James got put straight by doctor Banner, that the rider did ease up on the new guy. But he was also droopy and glum and no amount of sneaking glitter into Happy Hogan’s gloves, socks, hemorrhoid cream or hair pomade seemed to cheer him up. In Clint’s eyes, it was a waste of perfectly good stolen property.

Lucy, his retriever, even started following Barnes around, and that was never a positive sign. That dog was a mother hen in canine form and seemed to have an ability to predict when someone was grieving, coming down with a cold, or even when an infant was about to cry.

While Clint knew it was over the rider’s crush on the soldier, between not wanting to discuss private mushy stuff and feeling wholly unqualified to have an opinion on someone who was probably on the verge of dropping their basket, Barton would not ask directly. Rather, he stuck by Bucky, trying to be chipper and discretely picked up the slack when the young man forgot a few chores or fumbled through a day. He could wait this out.

The thing that reassured Barton that James would be fine was that it didn’t affect his performances. The show energy, the buildup of the crowd, all that flipped a switch in James and he mirrored his young horse, ready to run and kick and dazzle. If anything, the show was his way of completely letting go and becoming something else. Everyone loved Buckaroo Barnes and his leopard stallion. One night red roses were even flung into the ring for him… Never mind that Clint had seen Tony and Wanda handing them to people as they passed into the bleachers.

But the part that didn’t seem to square with Barnes depressed mood was that the strategy totally worked. Steve grew more at ease. He was quieter than most, sure, but he joined them for meals, often coaxing Lang along with him, and even agreed to come to poker night sometime. In fact, he  
was practically underfoot, helping Clint groom his dogs or poking around to see who followed baseball or boxing on the radio. The boxing interest even grudgingly made Hogan into his mealtime chum, something Clint filed away as possibly useful, lulling Hap into a false sense of security for the future perhaps…

No, Steve was part of their gang now and yet that didn’t seem to cheer Barnes, nor had it, as Clint hoped, made James’s crush dissipate with the newness being worn off the soldier. Was there something else going on?

As they were getting dressed one morning, Clint flicked at Buck’s shoulder as he hunched over tying his boot.

“Hey, pal. You OK?”

James straightened and spun on him so fast Clint took a quick step back. “Whoa there.”

The younger man frowned, confused, then sighed. “Sorry. I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

Buck paused.“Yeah.” He confirmed.

  
And thankfully, as Halloween approached, the rider’s black mood lifted and he was more animated, whistling and, ugh, waking up earlier to get busy.

“What gives? You hate Halloween.”

“Phwew.” Bucky snorted. “Who cares about that? Ma and the girls are coming that weekend. I booked a hotel — we’re going to stay in town and live it up.”

Clint grinned and gave his shoulder a punch. “Can I come to?”

“Not in your wildest dreams.”

The rest of the time leading up to the visit, Clint watched a small pile of parcels forming at the foot of James’s bunk: a collection of candy and gifts for his sisters. He shooed his dogs away from the goodies and smiled. Buck would be alright.

* * *

Halloween was on Sunday, and all week Steve had heard people in the crowds whisper about it. A man dressed in a dark wine-colored suit from the First American Spiritualist Congregation had bussed in a small group on Tuesday, but these out-of-towners ignored the main show in favor of patiently waiting in line for a visit with Wanda. Another afternoon Steve spent with Pepper cranking out orange and brown tickets decorated with crystal balls and mystic stars while catching snatches of Tony, Dumdum and Happy plotting out how the top was to be furnished and decorated  
as soon as the matinee was over. They sounded clipped and serious, like generals outlining a dangerous maneuver.

Steve expected maybe children in costume, pumpkins and spiced cider, or even some extra mischief on the lot, but the atmosphere around this was just… ….strange.

  
“So, what’s the big deal about Halloween?” Steve asked Clint during breakfast.

“Wanda’s seance?”

Scott groaned.

James looked over at this, frowning deeply.

Steve tried to ignore them and pressed on. “Yeah. I mean, how’s that different than whatever else she does telling fortunes?”

“It’s hokum is what it is.” Scott interjected.

“Is it?” Barnes' lip curled. “How would you know?”

Both Clint and Steve exchanged worried looks. Clint cleared his throat carefully. “Philosophical opinions aside,” He began, giving Lang a ‘please don’t poke the bear’ look, “Wanda normally offers divination like palm reading. In a seance, she acts as a medium, enters a trance and becomes the microphone for spirits from the great beyond.”

Steve looked from Bucky to Scott cautiously. “But, it’s for the audience, right? Like a mentalist — it’s just an act.”

James straightened. “She regularly speaks to the dead. On Halloween night the dead speak through her.” He told Steve matter-of-factly, staring hard at Scott.

Lang wiped his mouth. “I think I hear a fuse box calling my name.” He muttered and left.

Frowning, Steve watched him go, then turned to Bucky. “So, you’ve seen this? You get to ask questions?”

“He wouldn’t know,” Clint smirked before Buck could answer. “He’s been in his trailer under the bunk with all the lights on every damn time.”

James gave him a look of utter betrayal, then also shoved back and strode off from the table.

“Well, fuck.”

  
When, how or if James and Clint made up over this was a mystery. Either way, by the time Winifred Barnes and her three daughters showed up on the lot before the evening show Friday, Oct 29th, James had only wanting to see his family and to get through his appearances on his mind.

Steve was in the menagerie, quickly separating the pair of Dalmatians from the other dogs for their entrance with Clint when the Barnes family came in. Bucky saw them and did a terrible job trying to maintain his cover act as a lowly horse groom with his sisters giggling at him, until finally, he gave it up, jumped the fence and buried himself in hugging his mother.

“Winifred!” Pepper came in from the back tent area, already in her colorful dress and makeup to take Oscar and the calliope out. “We’re so glad you could come. This weekend is all James has talked about.”

Steve half listened to their chat as he guided the dogs over to Clint then closed and tied the sidewall back.

Suddenly, Pepper had his shoulder. “Steven, This is James’s mother, Winifred Barnes.” She steered him over to a well-dressed woman with the same blue-grey eyes as James.“And this is Rebecca, Amelia, and Lily.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Steve smiled at James’s mother and sisters. Rebecca was a young teen, but Amelia and Lily were still definitely kids, one making faces while the other stepped shyly behind James’ and Winifred’s legs.

“Steven, since they’re family guests, why don’t you show them in early to a front row spot?”

“Certainly. Right this way.”

Bucky kissed his mother’s cheek and squeezed the girls goodbye, promising to see them in a bit and Steve felt his heart swell and ache. James looked like he was on Cloud Nine to have them here and it made Steve both happy for him and painfully lonely. He would have given anything for that sort of welcome, someone who knew him, someone overjoyed to see him and he to see them.

His face was all polite smiles though as he led the family past the back of the menagerie, through the backstage area to enter the main top. As they walked, the girls whispered at things they saw while Rebecca asked her mother about the hotel room and what they’d do in town.

Peter hurried by in his black and red tumbling costume and Rebecca went suddenly wide-eyed and silent.

A glance at Mrs. Barnes told Steve that the mother had noticed too. They exchanged amused looks.

“Here you go ma’am. Center ring on this side’ll give you the best view of the aerials.”

“Thank you, Steven.” She cocked her head curiously. “Have we met? On a past season maybe?”

“Ah, no ma’am. I only came on this fall.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then relented into a smile. “Well. Maybe you just have one of those good familiar faces, then. This is perfect. Girls, tell him thank you.”

* * *

  
**Halloween Night**

  
By the time Steve was finished with his post-show duties and had washed and changed for the seance, it was well after dark. Returning the odd dishes that had made their way into he and Scott’s trailer, Steve found Jane and Thor along with the other Norse ex-pats had taken over the deserted  
cook tent. They were having their own little party, rolling krumkakes on a griddle, making coffee and setting up Scrabble.

Jane handed him one of the cone-shaped cookies. “It’s nice to get access to a kitchen sometimes. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thank you,” Steve shrugged, a little embarrassed. “But I’ve heard so much about the seance though — I’m sort of curious.”

She smiled. “Oh, sure. Tell the spirits we said hello.”

He didn’t feel she was making fun of him per se, but he also figured someone who devoured science texts like Jane did probably didn’t have much use for fortune tellers.

  
At the main entrance to the top, a dark velvet curtain had been hung, flanked by flickering gas lamps. An orderly line of people, all in nice dress clothes, were gathered before this veil. Steve, having heard a little from Pepper about tonight’s sense of occasion, had dressed as he had for the  
outing with Darcy, so he didn’t feel too out of place. Around him, he could make out a few snatches of conversation in the murmuring crowd.

“Then the voices said only I had returned. My sister and I were princesses in Thailand. I didn’t even know I had a sister!”

“They always know.”

Presently, the curtain parted and Antonio appeared.

Steve blinked.

Gone was the sparkly scarlet and gold ringmasters outfit. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt and lavender silk pocket square. His hair was slicked back with a handful of Brylcreme and there was a tidy boutonniere of evergreen and sage on his lapel. He smiled beatifically at the crowd, murmuring soft greetings of welcome and mingled among them, gently clasping and pressing hands. Steve had to stifle a laugh to see him transformed into such a Sunday school teacher, but his boss seemed to be serious about it, so Steve straightened up quick.

Pepper soon joined him, dressed in a very simple long midnight blue gown. She wore a little crown of the same greens and carried a basket of sprigs tied with more lavender ribbon, which she passed out to the visitors also with soft smiles and quiet greetings like her partner. When she handed one  
to Steven, she paused to adjust it in his buttonhole and gave him a little wink. “To raise your vibrations.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

If seeing Tony looking like a church deacon threw him off, it was nothing compared to discovering that Happy and Dumdum had also been pressed into service as ushers to guide guests in. The pair of them were bare-headed, showing their thinning patches and dressed in the same formal get-ups.

“You look like pallbearers in those monkey suits.” Steve hissed when they passed.

“Can it Rogers. You could be next.” Hap growled, leveling a smile at a wee granny as he offered her his arm.

Dumdum just kept a straight face, though his eyes were sparkling. Steve suspected he might have already met a few spirits before he began his shift.

When each had gathered a little group to them, Peter met them at the curtain to hand them an amber globed railroad lantern, and they vanished, a gently bobbing gold light shrinking inside until the tent’s dark swallowed them.

On their next round, Steve was bundled into a group with several women old enough to be his aunts and a young husband and wife. The husband looked around sharply, and Steve couldn’t decide if he was nervous or irritated to be drug along. He himself found his heart picking up the pace just to enter the darkness following Happy’s swaying lamp. They skirted along the center ring until the black parted and Steve could see where the congregation was arranged. In the center ring was a large round dining table, heavy wood and surrounded by equally solid looking empty chairs. Behind it was a wardrobe cabinet and two long sideboards, but there were no refreshments on these, only an assortment of strange objects: a trumpet and tambourine, a box of chalk and some small slate boards, many candles, a gramophone, a handheld mirror, a wireless radio… Before the  
round table were rows of chairs, arranged like church pews with a center aisle to the table in the middle. Here was where the ushers were seating the audience. Once settled, Dugan handed a tray to be passed down the row like a collection plate, but instead, each guest took a little pencil and  
some slips of paper from it before passing it on. All of this was lit with a few candles and more of the oil lamps, and Steve realized there must be a ring of additional blackout curtains shielding all this from being seen at the tent entrance. He smirked a little, admiring the effort to build the dark  
atmosphere. You couldn’t even see the bleachers from here, and the air smelled heavy like the sandalwood perfume all of Wanda’s tent was infused with.

Several of the people around Steve were already writing on the little slips and folding them up.

“What are you putting down?” He turned to the woman next to him.

She smiled. “If you have a question, dear. For the spirits.”

Steve nodded, but only folded the paper in his lap.

At last the full group was seated, and Dumdum handed leaflets into the crowd. When the stack came to him, Steve took one and passed the rest on, seeing it was a tract with a couple hymns on it. Soon, everyone stood and began singing the first hymn, Let Us Love While We May, and Antonio and Pepper came down the aisle with Wanda, who smiled and nodded to people.

Steve must have looked confused because the woman next to him leaned over helpfully. “The spirits like song. It’s always best to sing to open the circle and greet them.”

“Brothers and sisters, I bid you welcome. Please, let everyone be seated and let your hearts be at rest…” Antonio raised his hands in greeting, then made a courtly show of drawing a chair out for Wanda to sit in facing the group. “We are so pleased you could join us on this fine October night.  
My name is Antonio Stark. I will be your humble facilitator this evening. For those new to our traveling circle, this young woman is Miss Wanda Maximov, a sensitive medium and chosen conduit of those on the other side. Please won’t you bid her welcome?”

There was a soft pattering of gentle applause.

Steve wished to god he was sitting over with Dumdum or Happy or with anyone where he could snort a little or elbow some ribs. He never never would have in a million years pegged Stark to talk like this. Was this minister stuff an act? Pepper normally affectionately rolled her eyes at his  
puffed up rooster antics, but she seemed 100% on board with all this, only smiling, with a hand resting on Wanda’s shoulder.

“First, for those of you with specific questions, I would like to invite you to write them down. Brother Hogan and Dugan will collect them before we try to open a channel. Yes, ma’am here you are…” Tony bent, unhurried, to supply a woman who’d missed the plate of paper slips when it went around. “Now, as I’m sure you all feel it, we have a very sympathetic energy this evening. But, we cannot forget what tonight is. All Hallow’s Eve. Mischief Night.”

There were some knowing titters in the crowd.

Tony smiled wide. “That’s right. So before we begin, I think we should let the more playful spirits come through and have their fun. Get it out of their systems, as it were.” He winked at the front row and took Wanda’s hand, leading her back to the wardrobe.

Steve frowned, watching as Wanda entered and sat down in a chair within the box, perfectly relaxed, and allowed a veil to be draped over her head. As Tony closed and locked the wardrobe, the crowd murmured in anticipation, and Pepper dipped one of the evergreen sprigs in a dish of water and shook it to sprinkle the door.

“The lights please. Let us have silence.”

Hogan and Dugan hurried to turn down, then blow out, the railroad lanterns and candles on either side of the tent space.

…And Antonio’s voice seemed louder in the blackness. “Brothers and sisters, if you will join hands.”

Fumbling at his sides in the dark, Steven found his fingers readily clasped by strangers. He didn’t especially like it, but when in Rome…

It was still and silent, then there was barely audible static that gradually grew louder. Someone’s breath hitched as the sound rose to recognizable: the wireless radio with its snow and twisting whine of looking for a station. Slowly, a faint glow built on the sideboard by the radio, then flickered as a single candle came on, revealing the untouched radio with its knob turning this way and that.

Steve’s eyes, as they adjusted, cut right and left, but the cabinet was shut and Tony and Pepper were to one far side of the space and Dumdum and Happy on the other.

Still, while tense, Steve resisted the urge to snicker. It was spooky and a good trick, but if Antonio could make a dog transform into a horse in the center ring, he could gimmick a cheap radio. Probably Scott had helped.

Next, he admired how the trumpet twitched and tooted a few notes and the tambourine shimmied, jingled and then crashed off the table.

The scrape of chalk on one of the slates was a bit harder to explain though.

Someone in the crowd whimpered, and Steve heard someone else softly whisper reassurances. He didn’t like to think of Tony as a flimflam genuinely scaring people, but still, this was Halloween. That’s what people signed up for tonight, right?

One of the sideboard candles glowed coal red, then grew to a yellow flame all on its own, before it was joined with a few others, guttering, then settling into a steady gold light. The piece of chalk clattered down and was still.

Everyone waited, but nothing else happened.

With a gesture from Tony, the lamps were relit and the wardrobe unlocked. As Happy helped Wanda up by the hand and Pepper lifted her veil, Antonio held aloft the little blackboard. It was covered in stuttered crosses and several random numbers and letters.

“I think our friends have a lot to say to us this evening.” Tony smiled, and he placed the board on a tabletop easel where everyone could see.

Around him, Steve saw several people begin jotting down the letters or even sketching their placement on the slate.

  
Now Wanda was seated at the table proper and was poured a glass of water, which she immediately drained. “Friends, if you will join hands once again, let us ask who the spirits will admit to our medium’s circle.” Tony intoned.

Wanda placed her hands on top of the table and let her head loll back. The lamps were turned low, and Pepper cranked up the gramophone to play some soft birdsong and woodwind music.

“The spirits love the sounds of nature.” Steven’s neighbor told him giving his hand a squeeze.

He nodded agreeably and wondered how many people he’d met in an ordinary day spent their evenings with Ouija boards or asking unseen hands to make bells ring of their own accord.

“Spirits, we ask you to form our circle. Is there anyone there?” Antonio spoke clear and even.

A firm knock came from the closed cabinet and several people gasped.

“We hear you, spirit. One knock for yes, two for no. Will you tell us who must join the circle?”

Another single solid knock.

With urgency, Antonio waved to Dumdum and Happy, who each took an unlit lamp and quickly began walking the aisles, holding it over the start of each row. All eyes went to these dark lanterns expectantly, and Steve’s heart began to pound as it approached. As Dugan lifted his lamp over the second row, it glowed to life once then faded out.

“Row two, spirit. We see. Will you give us a name?”

A raspy voice that was neither male nor female came from Wanda’s tipped back head. “Emily Cole.”

Trembling, a young woman rose, looked around bewildered, then let Dugan lead her to the round table and took a seat.

Happy was right beside Steve’s set of chairs, and the soldier’s palms went clammy, a thrill of apprehension shooting through him. Not this row. Not him. Good lord, please don’t… The lamp swelled gold and Steve’s heart throbbed painfully.

“Row four, spirit. We see…”

Steve was spending all of his energy on not clamping down on his neighbor’s hands, his skinny fingers a rigid bundle of damp stiff twigs…

“Roger Beatty.” The unearthly coarse voice sighed.

Steve shivered with relief, watching the irritated young husband look around accusingly, then go nervous and join the table at the front.

The process continued, anticipation building as various rows were visited, leading to gasps and sighs as three more names were spoken.

Very slowly and quietly, Steve took some even deep breaths, telling himself it was just that he didn’t want to be the center of attention, didn’t want to have to sit at the front of the room for the rest of the show… For the most part, he believed this. Sure, the ringmaster and Wanda were doing  
a first-rate atmospheric performance. It was a sign of their talent that he was feeling chills or apprehension— but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t just a magic act. It didn’t mean the soldier was ready to rush out and join the First American Spiritualist Congregation…

With the five chosen seated and clasping hands at the table, and Wanda looking thoroughly catatonic, all the lights were extinguished. Antonio placed a single candle in the center of the round table and held his palms up. “Spirits, our hearts are open and we are listening.”

With a flop, Wanda’s head righted itself and faced forward, but her eyes were rolled back in their sockets. “Mary Alice,” a deep man’s voice boomed from her. “I’ve been needing to talk to you. May I talk to you?”

A woman in the fifth row stood, twisting her handkerchief. “Harold? Of course you can Harold!” Her voice broke as she laughed with disbelief.

It was as if ice poured down Steve’s spine.

…It wasn’t just that Wanda spoke to people as though carrying on the middle of some unfinished conversation. The voices that came out of her were decidedly not hers. There was a male child, an old gravel-voiced man, a reedy Scottish woman’s accent. People in the crowd recognized them,  
and stood, tearfully greeting them and were told all sorts of things. Apologies, comfort, what to do with heirlooms or relative’s passed down jewelry or acreage. At one point there were even chirps and whistles and a woman brightly stood up and began baby talking to her recently dead parakeet.

“Herman! Mama misses you so much!”

To Steve’s horror, he found himself in complete dread at what all this meant. Why? Why were the ghosts here doing this? As much as he missed them, what if the next voice was his mother’s or was Jim or Phillips or Will from his unit? What if they were in limbo or something else? On the other  
side, if his mother listened to him pleading and swearing off alcohol, did she know what lurked in his heart too? The dead knew everyone’s secrets, right? And could he bear it to think any of these people he loved were in some liminal space, lost and just stuck wandering in the murky darkness  
until someone like Wanda gave them a voice? Christ. His friends had already had enough — he didn’t want to hear them. He wanted to believe they finally got to go home. That’s all any of them wanted. To go home.

Then Maximov shifted in her seat, her head slumping forward until her brow touched the table.

“Dad?” A young man’s voice asked. “They didn’t find me after the blast. There wasn’t so much too find.”

Steve felt his spine tremble.

Across the aisle, a man stood up, eyes suddenly streaming tears and stretched a hand out, but those around him gently held his shoulders, his arms and corralled him in place.

“I’m gonna go now, Dad. It’s okay. You need to know it’s all okay now.”

As the voice faded and Wanda slumped back, the man sank into his chair, dissolving into sobs against the woman next to him.

  
Steve’s stomach and throat were full of hard wet salt. His hands tingled, as did the top of his head, and none of it was right or normal. He needed some air, but the last thing he wanted was to fuel this crowd by standing and bolting out.

When they started a closing hymn though, Our Hearts Are Bound Together, he muttered a soft ‘pardon me’ and ducked discretely down the outer aisle.

At the back of the enclosure, he had a momentary jolt — what if beyond the exit curtain was nothing but that black fun house Tony designed and he bumbled around in the dark and couldn’t find his way out?

He plowed through anyway and immediately felt a cold twist of relief in his belly — during the sitting, the extra drapes had been cleared out, leaving a wide obvious egress to the lot. He jogged out and looked up at the pinprick stars, sucking in big gasps of chill October air.

His first impulse was to go to the menagerie, but it was dark and he had no idea how the horses would react to him creeping in if they were asleep. He hunched into his jacket, frozen in the center of the lot and stared hard into the distant trailers. All the rows were dark — and he sniffed at himself realizing maybe, just maybe, he’d hoped big chicken Bucky had his lights on like Clint said. He shivered and swallowed against the lump in his throat. James was out with his own mom, playing house in a bright warm hotel room, probably playing games and getting his little sisters  
sick on candy, with stupid ghosts and shadows totally forgotten…

“Steven!” Thor boomed, upsetting the Scrabble board.

Scott quickly dove to catch the pieces. Steve was a bit surprised to see the engineer here in the cook tent. And the rest of the Norwegian coffee klatsch was still going strong, except for Darcy, who’d fallen asleep clutching the score pad and with a pencil behind her ear. Relief flooded him. A  
little group of smiling faces in homey gold light? It was just what the soldier needed.

“How were the spooks this evening? C’mon,” Jane pulled up and patted a chair. “Did you become one with the great beyond?”

Steve hurried over, forcing a thin laugh —

—Which made Scott look at him funny. The engineer climbed back to his seat, dumping the rescued tiles on the board with a clatter. “Hey… You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. It was just… really weird.”

One of Thor’s compatriots was the ruddy faced cook Steven sometimes worked with. She muttered something in Norse and got up, patted his shoulder, and headed for the kettle and molasses.

“Tony and Wanda definitely promise weird.” Jane nodded.

Thor frowned, “Tell us how.”

“I don’t know. Just… “ He swallowed painfully. “I don’t think I thought about how much I missed some people.” Christ, he shouldn’t have said that. He felt his eyes prickling and he put his back up. The last thing he wanted was tears right now. It was a party stunt, and he was a grown man, not one of those silly plump maiden aunts holding hands and singing hymns and being taken in with some nonsense about how they were Cleopatra in a past life… “You don’t believe this junk anyway, right?” He looked accusingly at Jane and Scott.

“No, Steven, I don’t.” Jane shrugged, not unkindly.

“Right. But I didn’t think it would seem… that it could sound like… someone I knew.” His eyes flashed on Scott, frightened, then away, angry with shame.

“Hey… There’s a reason people pay money for it, you know. Tony couldn’t do that if it was a transparent hoax, right? And he’s a magician, I bet it seemed very real.” He patted Steve’s shoulder tentatively, and when the smaller man didn’t flinch away, gave it a firm squeeze. “And, what do we know? But still, if it’s fake, it just seems like a really mean trick to me. A really mean trick. You know? And even if it wasn’t fake, I’m still not sure how I feel about it… Let’s not worry about that. Did you know Jane and Darcy cheat at Scrabble by telling these guys gobbledegook letters are English words they don’t know?”

“Oh my god!” Jane gasped and flicked him with her napkin. “See if we let you join again! Now I know why you’re banned from poker night!”

Steve smiled and watched them banter, accepting the mug of molasses coffee the cook pushed at him along with some butter cookies.

  
That night after they’d climbed in their bunks, Steve stared up in the dark, listening to the familiar squeaks and creaks of Lang shifting to get comfortable.

“Scott?”

“Huh?”

“You do all the lights for the show, right?”

“Yeah…”

“So tonight… With the radio and the lamps. You set that up too.”

The upper bunk was silent for a bit.

“Um, no. I don’t do anything for the seance.”

After a moment, Steve turned the small reading lamp in his berth on and rolled over. Maybe if he found out, Clint would make fun of him for the night light too, but Steve trusted Scott wouldn’t tell anyone.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Spiritualism! It's weird stuff! My old apartment it turned out was a few blocks away from a Spiritualist church and so one Sunday I bit the bullet and went to services. Sadly, when the service got to the part where the medium (or anyone in the congregation) would ask various people if they wanted to hear a message from the spirits, what they told me really had no insight or connection to stuff that was going on with me and I forgot it almost immediately. Maybe the ectoplasmic telegraph lines got  
crossed? Who knows?
> 
> While historically there were Spiritualism tent shows, other than fortune tellers being part of a midway, there really isn't any basis for Antonio doing something like this as part of a circus's offerings. And it would be a great deal of work to pull off for just one night. I figure Tony and Pepper just do it to make Halloween a special occasion. :)
> 
> Both hymns were selected from a Spiritualist hymnal found online and if you want to  
see a variety of railroad lanterns, this is a great page:  
http://www.jeffpolston.com/lantern.htm
> 
> Also, if you are interested in the history/social context of spiritualism, since I first posted this, Aaron Mahnke's podcast Unobscured did and entire multi episode season on the movement that is exhaustively researched and pretty amazing. That guy is like the Ken Burns of weird history.


	12. All Souls

* * *

Steve didn’t sleep well, which he told himself was from leaving the small reading lamp burning over his bunk. As he climbed up and quietly cast around for pants and socks, he rubbed his hands and glanced at Scott. The trailer was chilly, and Lang had burrowed and rolled up in his bedding until only a tuft of dark hair poked out one end. Steve sniffed, his throat a little raw, and pulled on Peter’s sweater and his coat before he slipped outside.

He wanted to get busy. To not rehash the strangeness of the night before or think about the voices or his bottomless feelings of loneliness.

It wasn’t full light yet, and a cold fog blanketed the still lot. Steve caught sight of a thin black form, over waist high, slinking through the white haze towards the top, and he patted his leg and gave a low experimental whistle.

The wolfhound lifted its head — it looked completely unearthly all oily black in the thick mist — and cast an incurious eye towards Steve. Lucky never paid anyone but Clint much attention, so the soldier didn’t take it personally when the dog turned away and vanished towards the tents without a second glance.

There was a little activity beginning at the cook tent, and Steve knew they could put him to work… But then he saw the round crown of Dugan’s bowler vanish into the menagerie. Was James back, doing his morning horse chores? No. More likely Dumdum was covering for him, even after being a point man on the seance. Steve strode after the rowdy.

  
As he ducked into the animal’s tent, Dugan nodded at him and without a word, the two began clearing manure. They worked in silent accord, and soon the rope stalls were mucked clean and laid with fresh straw, the horses fed and watered and Oscar and the smaller horses covered with blankets.

Dugan stretched and yawned, leaning on the center pole before pulling a tobacco pouch out and rolling a cigarette. Steve picked up a brush and worked on one of the ponies a little, but mostly stretched and took a breather himself. Tycho flitted about between the other horses, high stepping  
and stretching his neck, nosing and snuffing alternately at Steve and then at Dumdum’s hat.

“Get off me, you spotted giraffe.” The rowdy grumbled, but with no real venom, rescuing his bowler before its brim could be slobbered on and chewed. “You smoke?” Dugan jingled the pouch at Steve while Tycho belled and stomped away.

Steve shook his head.

“Didn’t think so. ‘Preciate the help though. Some night.”

“The seance?”

“Nah. That was about on par. Bunch of the crew peeled off though. Couple rowdies, some tumblers and tent crew. It’s gonna be a bit tight. Stark’ll announce final season show real soon.”

Steve blinked. “Why’d they leave?”

Dugan shrugged. “Happens sometimes you got a late-running season. They probably had winter engagements or other jobs to get to.”

This was surprising… They just left? What did Antonio think of that? Was it like going AWOL? The soldier’s face must have read this, because Dugan was giving him an amused look. “No need to call the MPs. They’ll turn up again come April. C’mon. I smell coffee.” He gave Steve’s shoulder a friendly shove towards the cook tent. “And Dernier says you’re coming to poker tonight. That so? We could use some fresh blood at the table…”

* * *

  
Monday was a day off, Steve reminded himself when he realized he’d scanned the whole of the cook tent for James to no avail. If he finally had a little time to spend with his family, of course he was using every bit of it. He might not even come back to the lot until drills or rehearsal on Tuesday…

Steve shifted his thoughts to the crew who had left. The season was ending. Pepper had said he could help take care of the animals through the winter. Where would that be? Who else worked with them for the off-season? Also, Bucky wouldn’t be separated from his horse — would he be there? No, he’d go home, right? Did he take Tycho with him?

“Ah! Just the steadfast tin soldier I’ve been wanting to see.”

Startled, Steve looked up to find Antonio, rumpled and in his dressing gown, joining him at his table.

“I’m sure you’ve heard we’re down a few of our number?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony smiled and took a gulp of coffee. “I will never get tired of the sirs. Never. And it’s because of that consistency, that respect and reliability that I come to you with this favor.” Even only half awake, Antonio babbled ballyhoo. Truly his native tongue, Steve thought.

“Favor?”

“A work opportunity, if you will. Your moment to shine!”

Steve shivered. Did he want to hear this?

“What is it?” He asked hesitantly.

“Part of the crew who left were some backstage hands. My bird handler for one. We need at least one more person — someone who’s quick — to help clear the birds after the dove act. Stage the dogs for Clint’s entrance. Help place the flowers mid-way through Barnes’ posy bit. What d’ya say? Can you handle a run-on part?”

Steve found that even though it meant being in front of the audience, the tasks were so brief and direct, the idea didn’t trouble him. “Sure. Of course.”

“Great! Meet with Peter during drills tomorrow. He’ll show you the ropes.”

* * *

  
After breakfast, Steve headed back to the trailer to gather he and Scott’s laundry and watched a few of the performers driving off the lot, eager to get an early start on their free day. He imagined James having a lazy morning, dawdling over coffee and… what would the girls like? Maybe pancakes? … Before he’d see them off at the train. Or would they come back here? Did his sisters like horses? Would he take them riding?

Steve shook off the thoughts as he passed Wanda’s tent. The fortune teller was splay-legged, bent over, struggling to pull a rolled canvas out towards the banner line. It was a far cry from how she looked last night, gowned and crowned in evergreen before her awe-filled admirers.

“You look like you’re hiding a body,” Steve smirked grabbing the other end and hefting it.

“Sure. Rolled ‘em up right in the rug.” She grunted. “Thanks. Just over here.”

They plopped it at the foot of the current line and Wanda propped a foot on it.

“What is it?” Steve nudged it with his combat boot.

“My banner for the Atlantic City boardwalk. Dang thing got wet when we were shuffling things around after the fire. Stuck a bunch of the paint together and mildewed parts.” She knelt and motioned for him to do the same on the other end. With a shove, the pair began to unroll it. “See?  
I’ve gotta get all that redone and touched up before I head out there for the winter.”

The banner showed Wanda reclining in a waxing moon, holding aloft a shimmering crystal ball. Stars with images of the zodiac in celestial white wreathed her, but unfortunately, every area of her porcelain skin or the milky white of the stars was blotched with royal blue from laying against the  
night sky paint or was peppered with dark blooms of mold.

“Say. I heard you’re artsy. Why don’t you help?”

To Steve’s surprise, he found he wanted to. It wasn’t fine detail work. More like an enormous paint-by-numbers. And it was an attractive design — it’d be satisfying to restore it. “You have the paint already?”

“Well, no. But I have money and truck keys.”

So this was Steve’s day: going to a hardware store with the psychic and helping pick out paints, and definitely not asking a single thing about any dead people whispering in her ears. He was 100% done with that curiosity.

But that didn’t mean Wanda had no curiosity of her own. Standing at the check out while the clerk sacked up pints of paint, she gave him a sideways look. “So, I’ll bite. You and Lewis, huh?”

The soldier managed not to cough, but definitely turned pale. “Oh. It was just the one. The one date. With Thor and Jane.”

“Calm down. I’m not counting.” She snickered.

Steve’s eyes flashed with more apprehension. Then why was she asking?

“She’s real nice.” He stammered, gathering up the paint. “But I think she’s too young for me.” He managed lamely.

Nodding, the fortune teller led them to the truck. “You don’t like talking personal stuff, do you?”

“Not especially.”

“Fair enough.” She hopped behind the wheel and cranked the truck.

“Can… Can I ask you something?” Steve couldn’t believe this was popping out of his mouth. First agreeing to prop work during the show, then the painting and now this?

“Turn about’s fair play.”

“Do you know what happened to James’ arm? I thought he was in the war too, but no…”

“Yeah, definitely no,” Wanda said mildly. “Bone infection — a weird cancer. He was very small. Real young. That’s why he’s so natural about it now. He’s been more his life without it than with.”

Steve nodded, pointedly facing forward, and hoping she didn’t notice his ears burning red. “That’s, uh, good, I guess. I mean… he can’t get it again, can he?”

Wanda laughed. “No. No, he can’t.”

While he had more questions, Steve kept them to himself and focused on helping Wanda hang the banner and mix paint. They dabbed the white areas with bleach water to kill the mildew, then worked on touching up the blue background while it dried. By late afternoon, they had finished,  
only Steve relining a few of the stars to make them crisp from a distance. He looked up to find Stark crossing the lot with Pepper, watching him curiously. He wondered if he’d get drafted into truck lettering next. That might be okay if his hands were as good as they’d been today.

Still looking to keep busy, he left Wanda and went to the cook tent to help with dinner prep.

* * *

  
Bucky still hadn’t turned up after dinner when Steve had showered and was getting ready to head for the poker game. But the rider’s where a bouts weren’t the biggest mystery he had tonight: Scott’s mood was.

Returning from the shower, Steve found Lang futzing with his new aquarium, unspooling wire, and generally huffing about and avoiding his gaze as Steve got ready. Of late, Scott had framed in a section of his work counter to hold a tank and seemed to be wiring lamps above it. Steve assumed it was for fish, and he didn’t understand how someone with Lang’s engineering mind was blind to how the water would slosh when the trailer moved. Whatever. Scott could be odd sometimes.

He went back to finishing dressing and twisted his chin peering in the small mirror glued to the bunk posts. “Did I get all of this?” He ran a hand over the small patch of stubble in question.

“You’re fine. Who're you trying to impress?”

“No one. I just don’t want to be sloppy. What’s that thing for, anyway? You’re not afraid you’ll flood the trailer?”

“No. No, I’m not. You see any water in it?”

Steve rolled his eyes.“What’s in your craw? Jesus, why are you being such a pill tonight?”

Scott’s face fell and he turned beet red before blurting, “You think I don’t like to play cards?”

“What? Is that all?” Steve laughed with relief.

“All? What else is there to do around here? That’s the social event that actually requires brains.” Scott sighed.

“Right. Okay, but I thought maybe it was because of your parole?”

“And crossing state lines with a traveling show is okay?”

“Fine. So how come you don’t just play?”

“I told you, I’m banned.”

“That’s horse shit. It’s just a friendly game. C’mon.”

Scott threw up his hands and paced a circle, which in the trailer amounted to just turning around a few times. “If Tony said no, I’m not crossing Happy. I’m banned. Look, poker is a game of confidences. And I feel most confident if I know everyone else’s hand—Wait. No. That didn’t sound right.” He sputtered watching Steve’s eyes go wide with amusement. “Look, some people know how to read people and bluff. I don’t. But I know lighting and optics and I’ve worked with Tony long enough I understand a magician’s skill of misdirection. And somehow bluffing and analyzing tells is okay, but if I employ my skills, it’s not. Does that seem fair to you?”

“Well shit, not when you put it that way…”

“Tony is still allowed to play, they just told him he can’t deal. But I would _never_ ever stack a deck or deal seconds. That’s cheating. _That’s_ manipulating the hands.”

“Did Tony tell you-you're out?”

“Hap did.”

"Huh." Steve frowned. “Put your coat on.”

  
When Sam and Clint opened the flap and saw Scott at one of the poker tables, both their eyebrows went up.

Antonio waved them in and Dugan smirked knowingly. Sam parked himself next to the rowdy and poured himself two fingers of Scotch before leaning over a little.

“Interesting development.” Sam murmured.

“I’ll say.” Clint’s eyes were trained on the second table where Hogan sullenly dealt cards to Steve, Dernier and a couple other roustabouts.

Dumdum snickered. “Helluva show. Rogers went after Hogan like he was the bully shoved his kid brother. Did you know Hap spooked Lang off the card party?”

“No lie?” Sam whispered, glancing across the table where Dr. Banner shuffled, seemingly oblivious to their gossip.

Clint considered. “I’m not surprised.”

“It was hilarious.” Dugan chuckled quietly. “Looked like a Jack Russell going after a bear. Hap’s in the doghouse for telling everyone it was Tony’s idea.”

“Huh.” Clint gave a satisfied huff.

Sam lifted his drink in a little salute towards Steve. “Good for him. What’s Lang up?”

Dugan’s face fell a little and he grunted. “Three hands already. I still say it was worth the show.”

  
As the night wore on, players drifted in and out as they lost interest or their money. Steve was still doing okay, and he suspected Scott had thrown a few hands to keep tempers in check. Happy busted and had to watch Dugan cheerfully rake his beer money into his hat before he stalked out shortly after — which lessened the room’s tension considerably. Steve even stopped prairie dogging his head up every time someone entered and began trying to note tells at the table.

But at the next rise of the flap, the crew burst into hoots of laughter and Steve looked up to see a dozen hands trying to paw at James’ head, who dodged and struggled to fend them off one-handed. Something was different, but in the blur of activity, Steve couldn’t make it out.

“Oh hell son, she got you!”

“Season’s over!” Clint roared, reaching for him. James swore and did a turning duck, squirming away.

Steve looked at Dumdum, baffled. “What?”

“It’s the Christmas Cut. Barnes’ mam gets a hold of his hair — that’s Stark’s signal to announce the last show. Don’t ask me why.”

“Damn it! Knock it off.” Bucky swore, muffled under Clint’s arm holding him in a head-lock.

“Can’t help it. It’s so dang pretty.” Barton twisted him so the whole table could see: Short back and sides, with his curls carefully pomaded and combed back.

Steve froze.

  
If James was handsome before, now he looked a movie star. Or angel. Yes, they did a lot of grooming things catch as catch can, like trimming each others hair or having to shower with the lot’s makeshift plumbing, or shave using a trucks’ side mirrors. Steve knew that was probably why James let his hair grow until he could ponytail it…

But, how this looked?

How did Stark not make it a requirement of his costume? Of his performance?

While Steve had this split second of shock, the rest of the table saw their opportunity and stuck their hands in it, mussing curls every which way, while James wriggled and cursed. He finally landed his elbow in Clint’s gut hard enough to wind him and escaped across the tent, finger combing his hair back into place. “Not funny.”

“It’s lovely James. You tell Winifred I said so. Very becoming.” Pepper gushed.

“Hey soldier,” Gabe elbowed Steve. “That look regulation to you?”

Steve choked, willing himself not to blush and to make his glance at James disinterested.

“S’alright. For a civie.”

The rowdies roared at this.

“Don’t listen to these louts,” Stark told James. “They only go to barbers to get teeth pulled. Also, we pull up stakes before Thanksgiving. Two weeks. Last show of the season everyone.”

* * *


	13. Ring Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The season winds down with some Bucky angst.

* * *

Tuesday morning, Bucky was feeling something akin to post holiday let down. He didn’t want people smirking at his hair or rubbing his head anymore. Steve had called him a ‘civie’ — whatever the hell that meant — and left the poker game with Scott not long after Buck arrived, so he’d missed his non-work related chance to steal looks, er, rather, to socialize with the soldier.

What did it matter anyway? He wasn’t supposed to like him, or act like he liked him. And now the season would be over in two short weeks and who knew what would happen to him? Over the holidays rowdies found other jobs. Jobs steadier than show work. They came and went. Bucky might go home, do the smaller local charity Christmas shows and come back from his break to find Steve moved on.

Climbing into his coveralls before it was full light Tuesday morning, he slipped out of the trailer without rousing Clint. Lucy, the retriever, followed him as he cut across the lot to the cook tent. He didn’t sit down though: only filled a napkin with biscuits and sausage links and stole a large mug of milky coffee before carrying it all with him to the menagerie. He sat on a hay bale and

sullenly wolfed down the meal while Tycho lipped at his hair and snuffled the orange dog. Breakfast done, he doled out the horses feed and checked everyone over while they ate. Then he mucked out the area and spread fresh straw. He could do most of these things one-armed, though he was slower with the shovel and had to use a looped lead rope, tied cross body to lift the other handle in tandem on the wheel barrow. As a performer, he could have gotten away with just feeding, grooming and taking them out for exercise and left the dirty work to the roustabouts and hands, but he disliked the idea he was that spoiled and always took a turn. Besides, someone had taken care of this over the weekend for him and in the mood he was in, he wanted to stay busy; to wear himself out.

All weekend long, Rebecca had pestered him with questions about Peter Parker. He’d played along, answering, he and his mother shooting amused looks at each other and finally Amelia and Lily began giggling and singing “Rebecca and Peter, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, first comes love…” and it was hilarious.

Now he turned it over in his head, trying to remember fun bits of the visit, and all he could think of was Rebecca had a better chance than he. Peter would be back in May and his sister would surely see him at the opening show. She would beg James for an introduction and then who knew?

The lonely hole inside him yawned, and he felt ashamed to think he was feeling jealous of his sister for… For what? Being normal. Acceptable.

But it was true. All things laid out simple and plain, the odds were in Rebecca’s favor. They were not in his.

* * *

Colder weather was not Steve’s favorite. For the past week he’d been living in the mustard colored sweater and his shearling coat, but Tuesday morning he also stuffed his hands into work gloves before breakfast and even jogged a couple laps around the cook tent to warm up. It was like with Halloween out of the way, the autumn immediately gave up the ghost to winter. He was certain he saw frost on the tall grass edging the tents.

And between Army rations and the lean period before he’d joined up with Tony, he knew he probably focused a bit more than he should on food, but he couldn’t care. Waste not want not, right? As long as he sat between Thor and the teenage bottomless pit, Peter, he figured no one noticed. It was good to feel full. Stable. Grounding. But cold weather made the creature comfort urge grow… Since the weather had cooled, he packed away hot meals like shoveling coal in a train furnace and without an ounce of self consciousness.

In the cook tent this morning, it started small: Steve cleaned his plate and Barton, apparently feeling hospitable, casually nudged his leftovers - a spare sausage and biscuit - over. The conversation didn’t pause, but Clint’s mouth crooked up as he saw Steve nod thanks, stack his plate on his and methodically tuck into the additional food.

Happy was telling some story about a rube trying to sneak under the wall into Wanda’s tent, and how he posed as the man’s friend outside to screw with him. It was a great bit, and now Natasha laughed, but also scooted her own delicately nibbled breakfast at Steve. Her plate was added to the stack and her remaining eggs and toast began to vanish.

Somewhere in all this, the focus shifted from talking shit about drunks and other pain-in-the ass lot lice to everyone vaguely chatting while scooting partial plates of bacon, egg and what have you into the young man’s range, hearing a politely mumbled ‘thank you’ and watching the stuff disappear.

“If the dogs hear about this, they’ll go on strike.” Clint muttered before looking around for James, missing him, shrugging and returning to this strange entertainment.

Sam walked by and did a double take before blinking in astonishment. “Where the hell’s he putting it?”

Natasha snickered watching Wanda across the table make a ‘what the hell’ face and cup her arms protectively around her orange marmalade encrusted toast.

“I’d recommend keeping fingers and toes at least two feet away at all times.” Happy advised her. Six, no, seven plates later and Steve wiped his mouth and took a sip of coffee, finally looking up. A dozen faces were staring at him.

“What?” He blinked.

Clint began to applaud slowly. Steve looked around, then down at his tower of plates before turning beet red and everyone cracked up and smacked him on the back or rubbed his head.

Okay, so he wasn’t subtle. It was fine though.

“Don’t pay any attention.” Peter scoffed joining the table with his haul from the cook line. “I don’t know how they manage on three bites and cigarettes and coffee. Especially Natasha. I burn it all off. You must too, being Tony’s new gopher.” He crammed half a sausage-stuffed cat head biscuit in his mouth, gave it a couple chews before gulping it down like a freckle-faced anaconda. “He said you’re going to learn the birds and props with me?”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “Is it hard?”

“Nah. It’s easy. Just timing, marks and cues. And I’ll do the run on stuff this week so you just do the staging. Next week I get to do a routine with Nat so you’ll do the whole thing, but you’ll have it down by then. I had to do it starting out and it didn’t take a day to learn.”

  
By the time Clint brought the dogs backstage for rehearsal, Peter had already shown the soldier the aisle for the dove coops and dog crates and their order of entrance and retrieval. Presently the young acrobat was explaining the cleared lane for the horses’ entrances to the right and exits to the left.

“The pole back there is where their staging starts.” Parker pointed. “You’ll bring props to the middle, right up to the entrance, but the horses themselves will all start there.”

“That far back?”

“So they can also have a running start.” Clint put in. “Just like the dogs. Race in for a big entrance.”

Steve nodded and hurried after Peter who was now pointing out the other small gaps in the bleachers to allow prop masters and crew to add or remove things quickly from the ring at intervals around the auditorium. Lucky trotted after them, while Clint wandered with the rest of his pack to the main entrance to watch Natasha and Sam finish their morning aerial drills.

James entered moments later with Tycho and did a double take to see Steve. He frowned at Clint, looking sour and confused.

“What gives?” He signed.

“Nothing. Stark’s got him on prop duty since Peter’s gonna debut and those fellas cut out.” Clint shrugged. “Gonna break your concentration?”

“Hell no.”

“You leave your sense of humor in that rat’s nest on your head?”

“Fuck you, Barton.”

Happy strode past and snorted. “That’s a yes.”

Instead of answering, James swung up on the horse and the pair took off into the ring. Something in the ‘fuck you’ lacked Barnes usual mild tone, and Clint watched, concerned, as Bucky tore flat out across the ring and out the main entrance onto the lot.

  
Tycho was back in the menagerie, which meant Barton’s hunch was correct and James was nearby.

Pushing past the horses, he spotted the rider’s back over behind the animal pen where the food and tools were kept.

Clint shuffled his feet noisily and waved in front of the lantern to cast a wagging shadow in front of where James hunched, seated on some hay bails. The rider caught the signal and hurriedly wiped his face with his bandanna and snuffled. Sitting next to him, Clint bumped shoulders gently and lowered his voice. “That bad, huh?”

James nodded.

This sort of thing wasn’t Barton’s forte, but James’ emotions normally ran fast and light. He could get sad or angry or embarrassed, but being indulged the way he was, he generally blurted out what was going on and five minutes later it was dealt with and past.

This was different. It had taken longer for understanding to sink in with Barton, but finally… this was very different. Clint hadn’t lived and worked with the rider the past few years without noticing the button James never acknowledged or pressed, and here Clint had been making light of it, always teasing him like an asshole. He gripped Bucky’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, pal.”

Barnes broke against him, soundless, burying his face in against Clint’s shoulder, his back heaving in barely suppressed sobs.

Christ. Barton put his arms around him, but said nothing. What must it be like? Just a few minutes ago he’d been watching Natasha fly, openly making heart eyes at her in front of James or anyone else who happened to be around. And here, his friend worked a date night entertainment, treated to seeing hundreds of couples a week holding hands and sharing kisses. How could it feel to always have to be circumspect about any little urge or crush? Or to be told, even in this little group that accepted him, that the one he felt for was damaged goods and hands off? What could Clint possibly say? Nothing. So he hugged James tight and rubbed his back firmly.

  
Clint had hoped that the cry, letting it all out would have a cathartic effect on James. And if cathartic meant having the wind sucked out of your sails, it did. Rather than bouncing back, the rider was spent and subdued. His Wednesday rehearsal was lackluster, as was his weeks opening performance. During his downtime, he shadowed Clint quietly or did his chores in silence before curling up in his bunk.

This wouldn’t do. Clint had nothing against Steve — far from it — but maybe having him in the performance tent at showtime was a distraction too far for Buck? On Thursday, Barton managed to shake James long enough to circle over to Tony’s office…

But, damn it, he found Steve already there.

“He redid Maximov’s main banner.” Stark had a dozen of their old posters out on a desk before Happy, Pepper and the soldier. “And not to pry, but we all saw a few of your sketches. You saw them, Barton?”

“I did. Good stuff.”

“Exactly! So, no pressure, but you’re a natural choice for a new poster. Look at this!” Tony lifted their current one-sheet he’d been canvasing with when he and Steve met. “This isn’t our show! We don’t have an elephant or clowns. Jeez. Pepper? How is it we don’t even have clowns?”

“Unless you count Barton. Break his nose a few more times, you might get an elephant.” Happy cracked his knuckles.

“Hey!”

“You’re a one man clown car and you know it.”

“Just doing my duty.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.” Tony slid his hands in his pockets, nodding to Steve. “Right. So you get it. Something au currant. Maybe spotlight a featured performer. Strong colors. No sign of our walking emergency room and bail bonds mascot over there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s military stuff, right? All the sirs? Think you could rub some of it off on Clint? Would that work?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

  
With a sigh, Clint gave up and decided he’d try again later to catch Stark alone. And if in the final weeks of the season they went out with not a bang, but a whimper, well, it wouldn’t really be the end of the world. James could go home and do his holiday shows and have a change of scene. Maybe that was the real solution for him?

  
But Clint didn’t have to sneak back to catch Tony. Instead, as he and James were finishing up with the animals for the night, the ringmaster appeared blocking their path from the empty menagerie. “I have a gift for you two.” Antonio said quietly.

“Yeah?” Clint’s eyebrows shot up and even James straightened a little, curious.

“You know, Halloween aside, Barnes has been looking so mopey of late — longer face than his damn horse— and, well…” Stark’s eyes cut from side to side before he leaned in and whispered very softly between their ears. “I have it on good authority, Hogan hates spiders.”

Their eyes went wide and as they leaned back, both searched Stark’s face for any sign this was a joke.

“Scout’s honor gentleman.” Antonio nodded soberly raising two fingers.

Clint could’ve kissed Tony. He clasped Stark’s hand between his formally. “Thank you, sir.”

Antonio sniffed, chin up, all magnanimous. “Yay, verily I do the Lord’s work. Also, snitches get stitches, capiche?”

Bucky bowed low, backing away, while Clint made the sign of the benediction as the ringmaster vanished.

* * *


	14. Ring Three

* * *

The back of Steve’s neck and skull prickled and he clenched his shovel harder, scooping manure and trying to sort and manage his thoughts.

Today would be round three of he and Peter working together, going over and then performing the staging routine of where to put props and when, how to move and efficiently manage live animals between musical cues and when to get them out of the way. Despite how breezily Peter described it, to Steve it was like complicated dance choreography — if that included causing a massive train car pile up should you get any of it wrong. Also, Stark wanted him to do a poster. The poster. Next season’s poster. Sure, he had all winter break, which was a blessing, but the thought still made an acid bomb of anxiety go off in his middle.

And it didn’t help that every time he looked up, James was in whatever tent he was in, looking like… well… like James. …And reminding Steve of the hungry, bottomless hole he felt inside… …which made him think about the stupid rider’s calloused fingers gently touching his temple… and the warm salt and leather smell that he knew now as Barnes’s scent from laying in his bunk…

Lately it was too much.

Before, Steve frequently found his emotions whipping through him without warning, his head like a haunted house of poltergeist activity, now tight with anger and ready to strike, now blank-eyed and empty as a dark curtain-less window, and now on a wind swept razor precipice of tears, or overwhelming panic. Often, there seemed no trigger, no rhyme or reason to it. It made no sense to him —Everything was fine. As Thor pointed out, he had a job and a place. When it was bad, he found himself counting on the next move, the shift to the next town — like that could relieve it at least by distraction — and he worked, head ducked, and looked for jobs he could do alone. But now there were no more moves, just the unknown change to winter quarters, and the anxiety seemed much worse.

Also with the prop assignment, he had to show up. He lost the autonomy to work by himself when the simmering tension and fear got bad. Or to have five minutes alone to lean against the black mare and just breath very very slowly. You couldn’t sneak off or take a break during a rehearsal and you certainly couldn’t during a performance.

But he wanted to do this. Wanted to show Antonio how much he appreciated the job. They needed an extra prop man and needed a new poster, so he would do these things. He white-knuckled the shovel handle and stabbed it under fresh manure, huffing, then slowed and forced a measured breath like Dr. Banner had taught him. He was in control. He would do his best. And if he made himself tired enough, the anxiety would give way.

It had to.

He hefted and steered the wheelbarrow out back to dump, then returned to hear familiar voices in the aisle behind the animals.

Trying to ignore them, Steve continued cleaning the pen. But one voice was Clint, who, Steve assumed due to his hearing loss, spoke louder than others. Right now the archer was peering out the front flap of the menagerie, like a cartoon spy, before he turned around and his eyes went wide. He’d only just now spotted Steve behind the animals.

Giving him a small dismissive wave, Barton huddled up to James and began talking low and signing urgently.

Performer stuff or gossip. Steve dragged the pump wagon in and began filling the horse’s trough with water. It was none of his business.

James looked kind of sullen and sad though. Which was… Not right. Why? He’d just spent the weekend with his family.

Curiosity piqued, the soldier moved a little closer as he raked and spread fresh straw…

“This is priceless information,” Clint explained, “but what do we do with it?”

James shuddered in illustration. “Shit if I know. I’m not scared of them but still… ”

“That’s any sane person if you ask me.”

Scared of what? Did Clint want James to do something dangerous? “What information?” Steve asked, pushing one of the saddle horses aside so he could see them clearly.

The pair turned on him and froze, eyebrows up.

James opened his mouth to answer, but Clint instantly grabbed him and clapped a hand over it. “Not so fast. He and Hap’ve gotten a bit chummy of late, you may have noticed. What with the baseball talk and boxing matches on the radio.”

Grunting, Bucky ducked and wriggled away. “So what? Remember the makeup powder? And he picked a fight for Lang — I say he’s on the level.”

Clint cut his eyes slowly from James to Steve and back, a silent measure and exam before he relented. “Alright. I’m with you then.”

  
So in the end they spilled the beans and Steve listened, stone faced, nodding.

“As you understand, we need to think very carefully about this.” Clint’s brow furrowed. “It may take some planning.”

But Steve only rolled his eyes. Clearly these guys had never lived among bored enlisted men with shoestring resources. He marched over to one of the horses’ tin feed buckets and flipped it over, then wrote ‘TARANTULA. DO NOT MOVE.’ in chalk on it before placing it in the middle of Happy’s usual path. After a pause, he grabbed a large brick and set it on top.

“Elegant.” Clint said nodding, then looked at Bucky and signed, “You like the smart ones, I see.”

“Shut it, Barton.” James returned, adding his middle finger for emphasis.

Steve frowned at them for not including him — the bird aside, many signs still eluded him— then went back to work.

By curtain that night, everyone had gotten a glimpse of Hogan flinching or grimacing and giving the bucket a wide berth. The best bit was when Peter, all naive curiosity, knelt down and began to lift the edge to get a peek under it — Happy beat it for the front of house so fast he left the overhead string lights swooping in his wake. Sam and Natasha doubled over each other laughing while Clint walked over and firmly pushed the bucket back down while shooing Peter away.

Steve was pleased, but he had other things on his mind, hurrying to get the bud vases put together and gathering the baskets to hold the doves. Lucky, who usually ghosted about the lot ignoring anyone but Clint, seemed transformed, wagging his tail and dutifully following Steve as he performed his work. It was as though being in the backstage area conferred authority and existence to the soldier. Lucy also followed him while he did the prop and animal staging, up until he lined up the Dalmatians, then she sat in front of her kennel, on her mark. The attention of the wolfhound made Steve feel a funny pride, but the retriever made him feel he was being supervised a bit.

He probably still needed it though, he thought smirking a little. It was his third night doing prop staging and it was maybe just starting to fall together and feel a little more natural. Enough so that when Clint and Bucky each finished their routines and Steve was running the small dogs back to the menagerie, he paused a moment to see what they were up to. Barton was tying a string to the bucket handle and ran it doubled back under the lip of it, under the straw, and between two bales of hay. The upshot was that it could be tugged to make the pail scoot along the ground.

James was grinning, then looked up to see Steve watching. Steve gave him a thumbs up and hurried back to grab the horses that had just towed out the acrobat’s net.

  
By Saturday morning, Happy had abandoned the menagerie and backstage entirely, only pointing supply deliveries inside while pretending to patrol the open lot.

Despite the matinee and evening shows, Clint and Steve entered into a pissing match for moving the imaginary spiders around. Any hollow object would do to hide them: coffee mugs, baseball caps, brassiere cups…

It became one-upmanship for which of the three could plant one in the best spot: the privy, the shower, the cook tent, Hap’s mail slot in Tony’s office trailer…

“He’s going to call your bluff.” Gabe whistled.

“Maybe.” James shrugged.

“Nah,” Jane shook her head. “Phobias don’t work that way.”

“Really, he should be thanking us. He’s getting used to them. The surprise is loosing its sting. Pretty soon he’ll be juggling daddy long legs with no problem.” Clint told Sam.

“Ya’ll definitely need more hobbies.”

  
By Sunday, Happy was beginning to get wise and more angry than apprehensive, so they seeded the buckets with rubber spiders from the five and ten to keep things lively. In a moment of ingenuity, James even delicately hung slim threads of cotton candy for Hap to blunder into near the laundry lines and Steve, plus everyone headed to dinner, was treated to his frantic windmilling arms and stumbling frantic dash across the lot.

After the evening show and cleanup, Steve retreated to the cook tent along with a few of the other performers. Taking a seat with sandwich and coffee, he saw Clint and James snickering and exchanging signs.

When they saw the soldier, both cracked up.

Barton leaned over the table and narrowed his eyes. “Checkmate.”

“Where’d you put it?”

“His bunk.”

The shrieking could be heard all over the lot. Steve, Clint and James immediately came sprinting, watching dark trailers bloom with light as they ran.

But Hogan was already outside, curled up in the fetal position.“Did you know they can jump? Jesus catfish can they jump — there were dozens of them. Dozens!” He hugged his knees, rocking back and forth in the dust, his back pressed to his trailer tire.

“There there.” Dugan patted his shoulder and pushed his flask into his face. Happy fumbled the bottle to his lips and drained it in one go.

“There are _three_. Just three.” Scott snapped indignantly, coming out of Hogan’s trailer with the bucket and very gently brushing an escaping fuzzy black foot back over the brim of it. “I paid special delivery from Las Cruces and I’ve been terrified for them all day! I don’t know who did this —but it’s like — well it’s like kidnapping!”

“Bugnapping.” Darcy cracked, arms crossed. She and Jane had come out in their nighties and slippers to see what the racket was about.

“Ophelia? Desdemona?” Scott called, all concern, peering into the pail.

“And dear little Chlamydia?” Dumdum asked.

“Shut up!”

On Monday morning Steve saw Tycho out grazing in the field behind the lot. On closer inspection, he spotted James too, but the rider was walking hunched over and Steve couldn’t tell what he was doing. He appeared to be looking for something, then he’d slow and crouch and snatch at the ground. What on earth?

Curiosity got the better of Steve and he wandered out after him. As he approached, it became apparent Barnes was stalking something in the tall grass with his one arm, and Steve saw nearby a large jar with a bandanna tied over the top.

“Grasshoppers?”

Bucky had just dove to his knees, then rose elated with a fresh capture. “And crickets.” He said, nudging the bandana aside and struggling to deposit the new bug in while keeping the others from getting out. Two orange striped grasshoppers flew off the lip of the jar with a loud rattle of wings. “Shit.” He laughed.

Steve helped shove the others down and replace the cloth.

“What are they for?”

Barnes frowned. “Scott’s spiders of course. Clint didn’t ask before he borrowed them. I figure Lang’s pretty sore.”

“Yeah. He was like a dad in the delivery room waiting for those creepy things to get here. He loves them. Lemme help.”

James grinned. “There’s a big rock over here. I’m betting cricket city if we lift it.”

* * *


	15. Poker Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has a bit of a roller coaster ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for brief PTSD flashback.

* * *

“Tycho’s an unusual name. Did you pick it?” Steve had wondered this for a while and now, breathless from the two laughing and chasing bugs, it seemed natural enough to ask.

The whole hunt had felt like two boys playing. Familiar even, like a school yard game. They’d disturbed a brown grass snake lifting the largest of the rocks and fell over each other backing away from it.

Now they had a decent haul of black and brown crickets plus a few striped grasshoppers and were wandering back to the lot together.

“Yeah. I was reading a book on astronomy. It’s the name of a moon crater, and well, craters are like spots, you know…” Barnes waved his hand at his horse’s dotted side.

“Does Jane know?” Steve smiled.

“She’d probably want to call him Horse Head Nebula or the Black Hole. He ate one of her hats last season.”

Steve snickered. “And the other horses are all Stark’s?”

James shook his head. “Nah. Sarah’s his buddy.” He dipped his head at Tycho.

“Sarah?”

“The black mare.” James looked at him quizzically. “I figured you knew all that.”

Steve tried not to look confounded by the name. His mother’s name. “Uh, no. I just do the chores. They don’t shake hands or introduce themselves, you know.” He offered with a weak laugh. “So she’s yours then.”

“She’s his.” Barnes insisted. “I had done a lot of training with my uncle’s horses, and I had toured a few seasons with her — my uncle gave her to me — and a couple quarter horses. Retired now. Anyway, I’d been saving up to start fresh with a colt. This neighbor bred some heritage breeds and he had a Knabstrupper to foal. I figured that was perfect to have a flashy coat. But the dam died and the foal wouldn’t take a bottle, until we stuck him with Sarah here.” He reached over and slapped Tycho’s shoulder. “Big titty baby.”

Steve laughed. “And you don’t worry about — I mean — he’s a stallion. Couldn’t he…?”

Barnes snorted. “You haven’t been around animals much have you? City boy?”

“Brooklyn.” Steve nodded.

The soldier couldn’t read the odd look James gave him at that. “Small world keeps getting smaller.” Bucky muttered. “Anyway, he’s no stallion. That’s all ballyhoo. Sounds good in the grind patter for Antonio. If he weren’t gelded, he’d be a holy terror with the other horses. He’s just young so he’s still full of piss.”

Steve grinned at this and reached over to pat Tycho’s flank. By now they were nearing the trailers. “You wanna take these?” James held out the jar and nodded toward Scott’s door.

“Actually, I need to catch up with Peter, and ah, those’ll mean a lot more coming from you. Scott’s a little in awe of anyone who performs.”

“Are you serious?”

Steve smirked and shrugged. “I don’t get it myself, but there you go.”

“Shut up.” James huffed, but grinned. “You coming to poker tonight?”

Steve’s heart was pounding. “Yep.”

* * *

“Steve’s coming.” James reminded Clint for the millionth time.

Antonio had charged the pair with picking up the alcohol for poker night. After a brief review of hard liquor preferences, they ran through a head count to work out how much beer to lay in as they stood outside the office waiting for a check from Stark.

“Trust me, I know. I know.” Clint groaned and looked to Dugan for help.

Dumdum shrugged and leaned against the trailer, “Don’t matter. He don’t drink.”

This pulled the two up in their tracks.

Clint and Bucky looked at each other then back at the rowdy. “Yeah, right. Tell us another.”

“Look, for all your boy staring at the kid, he hasn’t noticed.” He wagged a finger at Buck. “But you two watch. He’s perfect at it. I saw him at the game last week and I’ve seen him at every dinner since he signed on. He don’t protest, don’t draw attention to it and he’ll smile and toast and do everything the rest of us do, except actually let it in his mouth. Same damn shot’ll sit there all night and Gabe or else’ll down it when he’s gone.” Dugan sniffed and chewed his cigar. “Cheapest date in town.”

Clint looked to Antonio for confirmation. Nothing escaped a magician.

Tony lifted open palms. “A man’s choices are his own. Who am I to judge?”

“But you noticed.”

“Naturally. Do you know how many drunks traveling shows attract? Thank god we’re not on the rails. Pepper wants to add it to his curriculum vitae along with defending Scott’s honor.”

* * *

That night, Steve glanced around the poker table feeling a little… odd. Everyone else was looking at their cards, attending cigarettes, chatting or whatever… But was it just him or were Clint and Bucky staring at him an awful lot?

Dumdum snorted, cracked the top off a bottle and swapped it with the beer in front of him.

A ginger ale.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Nothing doing. I’m tired of Gabe getting ‘em once they go stale. Cheers.” Dugan raised the bottle and Steve picked up the soda to clink with him agreeably.

As the game continued, Steve was distracted, replaying he and Bucky’s conversation earlier, and wondering what else people had learned about him by simply watching. So he didn’t drink wasn’t a secret anymore. That being out was a relief, oddly enough… He hadn’t expected that.

What could he tell about the others? Before, he’d wondered if James lost his arm in battle but he’d sussed out he hadn’t pretty quick. Had any of the others gone to the war? He didn’t know for certain, but he’d also never asked.

Somehow, it didn’t seem likely.

He glanced at his mediocre hand then around the table.

Who else might have served?

James — even if Steve didn’t already know — obviously couldn’t have because of the arm.

Thor? He wasn’t a citizen, so probably not. Did Norway even know where he was?

…Clint was deaf and Scott had a criminal record…

And Antonio? Had he aged out?

But then he glanced down next to him. On Hogan’s forearm was an anchor in muddy blue ink.

Hogan put his cards face down with a scowl. “Eyes to yourself Rogers.”

“Fold.” Steve dropped his cards too. “Were you in the navy?”

“Oh.” Hogan scratched at the tattoo. “That. Yeah. Took a shot to the ass and got discharged."

“Don’t be modest, now.” Antonio said absently, raising the bet with several stacks of chips. “He saved his whole crew sitting on a torpedo. Show ‘em the scar, Hap.”

“Barnes sits on torpedoes nightly. I don’t see you hanging his queer ass out in the wind…”

“Your mother sits on torpedoes Hogan.” Bucky muttered.

Happy stood and bluffed a charge at James, who met it, raising his fist and butting chests with him.

“Tarzan, Jane, knock it off.” Tony put his palms down, steadying the table before cards and poker chips went everywhere. “Goddamn it Hap, I’ve told you before: Ask him out or leave him alone.”

Steve’s brain struggled between a going a mile a minute and suffering complete engine lock with this exchange. They couldn’t be in any way serious…

“Right. Like we need a couple bull moose tearing up the fucking furniture…” Dugan chewed his cigar. He gave the pair a dirty look until they settled back in their chairs grudgingly.

James shot a quick glance towards Steve, which, holy shit, was that wide-eyed worry on the rider’s face? Steve pretended not to see, turning instead to Gabe.

“Did you serve—?”

“Nope.”

—Then to Jim—

“No.”

—And on to Dernier and Falsworth… … who both smirked and shook their heads.

“It was amazing.” Tony cut in. “Demand was so high for the show. We had full Summer engagements in Ontario and Quebec. As you know, you simply can’t disappoint your public. Morale on the home front and all.”

“Oh lord, is he giving you some slick draft dodging baloney?” Pepper asked wandering in and helping herself to the vodka. “Uncle Sam could never tear him away from all this. Who would look after his pack of strays? He’s very protective of his ducklings.”

Suddenly everyone at the table was sniggering at Antonio.

“You hear that Thor? You’re a duckling.” Clint grinned.

The Norwegian looked baffled at first, but when Dernier and Happy began to peep and quack at Stark, he joined in. The rest of the table fell in line until it sounded like an Easter basket.

Rolling his eyes, Antonio turned to Steve. “You see the respect I get. This is what comes of fraternizing with the enlisted men, am I right? Would this be acceptable to an officer where you come from?”

“No, sir.” Steve allowed.

“How am I to command the proper respect when this is what I have to work with?”

Steve shrugged and blinked innocently. “Quack quack?”

The rest of the table cracked up and anyone in reach slapped him on the back.

* * *

The band was tuning their instruments. The top was lit and there was a murmur and buzz beyond the canvas of people climbing the bleachers and picking seats. Performers were here and there, rushing to finalize makeup, check costumes and jog or stretch off pre-show adrenaline. As much as Steve also wanted to run off his nerves, he had his marching orders. He’d already gone over and lined up the rack of bud vases for Bucky’s performance, arranged the dogs starting kennels and presently, went to the quiet corner of the menagerie to shift the birds from their large coop to the small wicker baskets that held them for the show.

When he got there, a flat package wrapped in brown paper was tied to the coop door with string. Written across the front was “For Steve”.

His first thought was that he didn’t recognize the handwriting and, oh crap, was it full of spiders? Or worse? What was worse? After a quick look over both shoulders, he gave it a firm poke and jumped back.

The bundle just wagged back and forth from its string. No spring snakes popped out. No buzzers or stink bombs. He grinned and yanked it down, shucking off the paper. He hadn’t had a gift since his mother passed away.

It was a new sketchbook and a box of pencils. Beaming, Steve opened and flipped through the first couple pages, then turned it and did the same to the back in case he had it upside down. Surely whoever got it for him left a note inside? But the pages were all pristine. He double checked the brown bag wrapper, but no. “For Steve” was the only message. Maybe Wanda got it for his help with her banner? No, probably Stark or Pepper because of the poster assignment. He tipped open the lid of the pencil box and sniffed the clean-cut scent of soft pine, rubber, and sharp linseed binder.

“Rogers! You ready?” Dugan boomed, and laughed when the smaller man startled.

Steve shoved the book and box into his buttoned jacket and gathered stacks of wicker baskets under each arm. “Yes, sir!” He hurried towards the backstage area.

  
From behind the canvas, in the performer’s alley, the roar and chaos of the show sounded muffled, even just a step away from the wash of spectacle Steve had experienced in the audience. He thought of it as a big monster. Not a real monster — more a phantasm or mirage everyone created with their energy and actions. A chaotic whirling behemoth of lights and color and sound with swirling limbs, tail and tentacles. Something so huge, only the top could contain it, charmed by the calliope and corralled by the bleachers. When the music died, it would roar no more and the spectators could wander home happily, glowing in the knowledge they’d witnessed and survived the amazing beast.

Which was all really silly. Steve knew that.

It was just nerves. Normal nerves. Giddy, daring butterflies. He grinned hearing the overture.

Tonight was it — his big moment. He would be a small part of the show, running on to gather Tony’s birds and place props so Peter could do his new flight routine with Natasha and Sam.

Once the performance started, his rehearsed choreography kicked in. Dogs were in line and ready. The doves had vanished into Antonio’s costume and wherever else he secreted them for his entrance and the German Wheel, the ramps for Thor’s pony lift — everything was all exactly where it was needed.

The calliope music gave way to Stark’s ringmaster waltz and Steve ran down the performer’s alley to his first mark. He would remove the rear right, center and left doves in Antonio’s wake. Dernier would gather the front ring birds by the performer’s main entrance. Both would leave behind Barnes’ bud vases in their places. He knew his cues: When the ring went black, they would start their run out. When the drums came up and the spotlights did their crazy 8’s dance, they should be dashing back.

Steve took his mark and crouched, ready…

The ring went dark.

The soldier darted. Hunched over, he made a beeline for the first bird, easily hopping the ring curb as he ran. He scooped up the animal and tucked her in his buttoned jacket and headed for the next. The second dove slid into the fabric willingly. As he reached the third, he fumbled to stand up the bud vase, got it righted on the ring curb in the dark with one hand while the other held the bird.  
That was when the air vibrated.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he felt the dark world shake around him and thrum. His hands were going cold and his breath came quick. His heart was suddenly a rapid thudding ache against his chest.

Blinding white cut over him and flashed away, then back. He couldn’t see…

It would tear across the sky again —

He clutched the bird and dropped into the sawdust, curling his body around her as the sound and hum rose and another searchlight blinded him.

Dry mortar powder was coating his mouth, on the back of his tongue and up his nose. Private Rogers was choking, eyes full of grit, only made worse by rubbing at the powder hung in his lashes. He saw fabric. A British uniform? Scrabbling at it… no, it was American infantry… under chunks of brick and stone. An arm hung out. Steve clasped the hand that was still warm, babbling reassurances as he became a pawing dog digging at the smaller bits of rubble. His hands found purchase under a big slab and he strained to tip it off, shoving so hard he fell chest down, following after the piece in its toppling fall. He scrambled back for the soldier, and saw clean pink revealed, not bathed in the dust storm of the blown building…

He felt his gorge rise.

The hand was pliant and warm and alive feeling.

But the pink was brains. The boy under the bricks didn’t even have his face left of his head.

The raid sirens were a ringing in Steve’s head. There was a deep vibration, a thrumming. A searchlight over him blinded him as he turned his face, mumbling to the kid prayers and apologies while he reached for the boy’s tags.

“Rogers! Get out of there!”

As he yanked the tags, the red brick wall of the factory across the road shot up like a geyser.

Time froze.

A fountain spray rising up against the pale, hail green colored clouds.

Then a pattering rain of stone before the sound wave knocked him down the pile.

  
Warmth and wet was coating his face. Lapping frantically.

Whining.

He twisted away, recognizing the retriever licking him and Steve pulled his legs under himself.

Somehow, clutching the pigeon in one hand and the other on Lucy’s back, the soldier staggered to the ring entrance, to be met by a jillion hands and relieved voices, but still it was too much. The lights were gone, but he was lost. His mind was recoiling, dissolving in a blank fog…

“Give him some air. Steven? Steven? Let’s get you someplace quiet.”

An arm across his back. A hand on his elbow. Private Rogers was an obedient soldier. He put one foot before the other and went where he was led…

Then there was cold night air and he was doubled over, spasming, retching in the sand, like a machine breaking down, a belt was bound up, gears were cross threaded and grinding, skipping… his throat burning, he gagged and spit at the foul bitterness, feeling his stomach muscles quiver…

The hands put a tin cup of cool water in his hands, guided it to his lips to rinse his mouth. He was shaking, alternately hot then cold. The edges of his hands felt numb, tingling. He was breathing too fast and shallow…

A warm hand rubbed a circle on his back gently. “Can you stand? There you go.”

With a ragged breath he staggered up and let himself be guided again.

  
“Here Steven. Step up. Sit. That’s it.”

Like a puppet, his body responded to the orders. It didn’t hurt. It was just empty fog…

  
Sometime later, he realized he was laying on his bunk. He was still dressed, but his shoes were off and his feet propped up. A heavy wool blanket was pulled up to his chin. Rolling his head to the side, he saw Dr. Banner beside the bed, glasses on, writing in a notebook in the dim light.

Seeing his open eyes, the doctor gave him a little smile. “It’s alright.”

Steve frowned and swallowed. He was missing time. And the relief of his quiet familiar trailer, it felt heavy, crushing. Like failure. “I’m sorry.” He croaked, his throat hard and tight. Sudden tears were springing up.

“Shhh. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” The doctor wiped his face, putting a warm hand to the side of Steve’s head, his thumb gently stroking his temple. “Nothing at all. It’s okay, son. Try to take a deep breath.”

Steve tried, though it came jagged and halting. He was glad to have a task, an order though.

“Good. Once more. That’s it.”

After the stuttering gasp left and Steve was taking even deep breaths more smoothly, Dr. Banner nodded. “Steven, you’re safe, right here in your bunk. You’re with friends. This is hard, but it can help you. Can you tell me what happened in the ring? What it was that set you off? It helps if you can say it.”

Steve thought he was going to choke. It seemed so obvious now, but he didn’t want to touch it again, revisit it and make it real. It felt like rocks in his chest and it was so stupid. But Banner was his friend…

“The vibration. When the bombs fell, they rained. You could feel it before they hit. Made your hair stand up.” His voice was so small. “And then the searchlights.”

“It put you back where it felt like a bombing?”

“Yes.” He whispered.

“You’re doing good. Can you tell me what really made those sights and sounds?”

Steve struggled, tears coming again. “Just drums. Just Scott’s lights.” His voice cracked.

“That’s right.” Banner stroked his hair and mopped more tears away. “You’re going to be okay. These things, you can work through them if you give it time.”

Bruce helped him sit up and drink some water, an arm around his shoulders. “I’m going to step out, and I want you to change and get in bed. I’m going to sit with you until Scott gets back.”

Steve did as he was told, glad of the orders, the company, Banner defining what came next and what he should do…

By the time he finished fumbling through undressing and dropping under the covers, he felt drained. Blank. At first, he was afraid the thoughts would come again, but no. Bruce returned, just as he said, and settled back in the chair, sentry. Steve let himself feel an empty relief, exempt from decisions or control.

He didn’t know how long passed. It wasn’t sleep, just a heavy exhaustion, but then not just Scott arrived, but James with him, breathless and sweaty and still in his spangled cowboy costume.

“Is he okay?” They both burst at the same time, tripping over each other to look in the trailer.

“Hey, I live here!” Scott elbowed Barnes out of the way and James grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back.

“Yeah but I need to talk to the doc!”

“Both of you,” Banner hissed, “Quiet. Now.” He glanced at Steve before moving towards the door and crowding them back outside.

Let them in. God, please. Let them bring all that with them and distract him from the mess in his head with bickering and jokes and gossip…

Steve could hear the muffled voices outside, low and urgent, but couldn’t make out what was said. But James had come to make sure he was alright. James was worried about him. Spoiled, clueless James who’d lost an arm but otherwise had spent his life wrapped and sheltered with loving family, or being the show’s darling, but never going to the war. Never seeing the world and all reason or his nerve ground up and trod under… His horse and now Steve were his concerns, his universe… The knowledge was a warmth spreading through his chest, so huge… Steve realized he didn’t care anymore what was right or wrong. He loved James Barnes.

  
Behind him, near the trailer door, he heard the doctor’s voice, low and stern. He couldn’t make out most of it until Bruce must have backed back into the trailer.

“Quiet. Just quiet.” Banner was urging.

Steve quickly scrubbed at his face with his sleeve and looked up to see Scott. The engineer was shuffling his feet and opening and closing his hands, but when he saw Steve’s face, he chanced a nervous smile and looked at the floor and back, trying to hide his relief.

“Doc says you’ll be okay? You scared me. It was like my spotlight light struck you down. Zap.”

“Lang, don’t.” Banner murmured.

“’S okay.” Steve managed. “Sort of did…”

“But he’s okay. Doing better now.” Bruce reiterated calmly. “Scott? You’ll stay with him? Keep him company until he goes to sleep?”

“Sure. Of course.” Lang puffed up, eyes flashing from Steve to Bruce as he nodded. “I was going to anyway. It’s like having a bad nightmare, right? Only you’re awake? Could happen to anyone. ‘Course I’ll sit with him..."

There was a rough thump on the steps outside and Banner glanced over with a sigh. “I’ll tell James you’re okay.” He moved to the door.

Steve grabbed his sleeve. “I’ll tell him.” He said quietly.

Banner’s eyebrows went up, but he smiled a little. “Alright.”

When Bruce disappeared down the steps, Steve heard the doctor’s voice, stern again, but still couldn’t make out what was being said.

The next thing he knew, Bucky was in the aisle by his bunk, sweaty, disheveled and ridiculous in his silver spangled and fringed costume. He dropped his cowboy hat on the floor and knelt, gripping Steve’s shoulder, but couldn’t seem to make words.

“Nice outfit.” Steve breathed. “Goes with the haircut?”

James heaved a breath, half laugh and half sob. “Yeah. Wanted to look fancy while you screwed up your big debut.”

Scott backed up to his tarantula tanks looking completely baffled by this. “Hey!”

“He’s just joking around.” Steve sighed, with a small grin. James hadn’t let go of squeezing his shoulder, and Steve liked that very much. “I-I do like the haircut.” He added to James, struggling to look him in the eye.

Barnes wheezed another laugh, but his voice had gone soft. “Yeah? You… You scared the hell outa me.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled up. “Yeah?”

James released his shoulder to rub the soldier’s head roughly. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard and blushed, his hand finally falling gently against Steve’s cheek.

“I’m real sorry about that.” Steve whispered, and let himself lean into the rider’s palm.

Scott’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um…” His looked from James to Steve and then bit his bottom lip.

Buck looked over at Scott and huffed a laugh. “S’alright then. I’ll let you go to bed like the doc wants. Lang’s here if you need anything, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

  
Reluctantly, James forced himself to back out of the trailer and quietly close the door.

But then he hugged his hat until it crushed and hopped up and down a few times.

He could not go to his trailer.

He couldn’t —He was going to burst.

Moments ago Steve’s eyes were looking into his with gladness and relief. His hand was touching his hair, cradling his cheek. A cheek that leaned into him…

James needed to run around the moon or howl in the sea, or just — something.

Racing into the menagerie tent, he bounced by Tycho, who whistled and cantered after him, arching his neck and flagging his tail. Bucky laughed and slapped his shoulder playfully, then spun around until he bumped into the black mare. He threw his arm around her neck and lay his cheek on her shoulder in an enormous hug. Tycho circled them, stretching his neck and whickering curiously, but Barnes now fully understood what Steve saw in her. The staid calm of the animal, an anchor of solid comfort. “Good girl.” He sighed.

  
Steve felt exhausted, but strangely light. There was a lump in his throat, and Scott was bumping awkwardly around the trailer, changing clothes and shutting off most of the lights, and maybe he was close to hysteria — Scott knew! —but Steve found it all kind of funny.

When the engineer finally plopped into the chair by the bunk, he blew out a breath and laughed. “You old dog. Jesus… really. One of the performers! And I thought you were trying to catch Wanda’s eye!”

“Wanda?” Steve was genuinely surprised.

“Well, yeah. I mean, you help set up her tent a lot, and you painted her banner, and hell, you even made a point of going to her seance. I don’t know. Darcy didn’t really seem your type, so…” Lang shrugged lamely. “But I had no idea!”

“Did you know about James? Uh, you know. That he’s…”

“Well sure. Everyone does.”

Steve frowned, disbelieving. “Really?”

“Really.”

The soldier swallowed painfully and shook his head. “I didn’t. Not for certain.” The lump in his throat grew bigger and his voice grew smaller. “I’ve… …I’ve been avoiding him.”

“Oh?” Scott looked at Steve, eyes searching his face. “Oh…”

Steve grimaced.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Lang told him gently. “Why would you know? And anyway, it’s showbiz —not the army. No one here cares. And James practically tackled me trying to get in here first, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about. He seems pretty smitten.”

* * *


	16. The Sea Side

* * *

Steve slept.

  
He dreamt about a rain of dove feathers and raking sawdust and straw that became knee deep mounds of gold paper tickets. He tried to gather them and fold them in his wallet because they were money, but on closer inspection the paper was expired army cheques that crumbled to ash and concrete dust in his fingers. Clint was patting him on the back and saying it didn’t matter, Steve could live in the air and on the air like the trapeze artists did. “All the best ones do it that way, you know.”

This seemed to make perfect sense at the time.

But soon he slept deeper, like some knot, some tense hard shell inside him had cracked open and released. His secret crimes were known and he was caught. What more could he have to fear? Scott knew. Banner knew. Already that was more than would ever keep a secret on the lot… Never mind that James ‘heart on his sleeve’ Barnes also knew and seemed, somehow, to have always known. No one scowled or looked away or cursed him —in fact, it seemed a footnote. A minor thing compared to their worry seeing him collapse into a flashback. He was safe and his friends were still his friends and some small tremulous piece inside him could finally breathe full easy lungfuls and stretch and rest. He slid deep beyond where the random pantomime of dreams could reach and slept.

Then early in the morning, almost awake, he had what was not a dream.

  
The sun was too dazzling. His first trip to the beach was all flashes: The legs of so many people, their bare knees, sandals, towels hanging down and bobbing hampers. Chatter and happy screams, the dull steady crash of rolling water and canned music from boardwalk concessions. He hid against his mother’s legs, then perched on the spread blanket with her, eyes wide at the crowd. So much sand. So many big people in picnic clumps or sunning themselves or running and jumping in the water. There were children too. Little girls in flowered swim dresses ran shrieking and laughing away from the onrushing water. Teenagers spiked a volleyball. Steven’s mother planted a blue and white umbrella to make a half shade over their blanket and settled beneath it.

She offered him a sandwich from their basket, wrapped in wax paper, but his attention was at the water. A boy with dark brown curls was dumping pail after pail of wet sand, industriously forming a tall pyramid. He had pretty freckled shoulders and a look of such concentration… Steven watched in anticipation as the water swept up, so close to the structure’s edge, but luckily didn’t reach it. Then, when the boy brought the latest full pail up, would it stand? Would it grow taller? Steven found he’d hurried over and begun digging a mote in the wet sand between the pyramid and the lapping tide line as a defense. When the next wave crept close, it flooded his ditch but didn’t touch the base of the rough sand castle. The boy with brown curls looked over at Steven curiously and smiled.

Steven waved and grinned and that was just that.

They made a sand fortress and village and channeled water through its streets and decorated the ramparts and gables with bits of shell and driftwood or colorful paper wrappers from the boardwalk. …Which led to hide and seek under the boardwalk… …and then experimenting with swimming, and that meant that their mothers must come out from the umbrellas and watch… And then the teenagers stomped through the tallest of the sand pyramid and Steven launched himself at them and got pushed in the sand, furious at their laughter while his new friend tried very hard to hide that he wanted to cry.

When the teens left, Steven hugged the other boy and, he couldn’t say why, kissed his cheek.

And the boy scrubbed at his eyes with his arm and laughed and pecked Steven’s cheek back and that was the best game they ever invented.

Their mothers tugged their blankets together and talked while they shared lunch. And after running around and swimming and food and so much sun, it was nice to curl up in the shade of the umbrellas, like a secret tent and they lay side by side smiling and trying to listen to what the adults were saying, or make out sounds in the roar of the crowded beach around them…

Steve remembered his friend’s eyelashes and grey-blue eyes and that he reached over and patted Steven’s shoulder, sun warmed, to tell him wordlessly how much he liked him.

  
When they got home that night and his mother was putting Steven to bed, he remembered trying to explain it to her. It was so important how he felt. He told her they should bring the other boy home and they could keep him. He could stay with Steven is his room and he would share everything, always.

She only smiled. “Is that so?”

He promised her he would.

“Do you think his mother would be sad if he did that?”

She could come too. They could all be together like at Coney Island.

And while they didn’t bring him home or keep him forever, they went back, week after week of that summer and they were all together at the beach… …until then they weren’t.

  
Cold air. Lemon yellow shafts of light full of spinning dust motes…

“Here you go Dessie…”

It was Scott’s voice. Steve saw a landscape of wrinkled blanket and Lang’s backside, sideways near his work bench. The tip of his nose was cold, but he was warm. He untangled himself from the covers and lifted his head until the view fell into place: Scott was leaning over, wetting the sponges in the tarantula tanks where his spiders got water.

“Oh hey. G’morning. You okay?”

“Yeah… Just a funny dream. …I was at the beach.”

Scott smiled. “Sign me up for that one. The beach sounds great right now.” He rubbed his hands under the red glow of the aquarium heat lamps. “C’mon, let’s go get some coffee.”

Walking to the cook tent with Scott, Steve spotted a tight huddled confab of Antonio, Banner, Peter and Dernier outside. His stomach clenched and he felt his ears go hot — of course his first impulse was there would be a dressing down or dismissal. But Stark wasn’t a CO or drill sergeant. Still, their talk had to be about him and his screw up, so he steeled himself for whatever might be coming.

When Tony spied him, he straightened up, arms open. “Rogers! Perfect!”

Striding up, Tony hooked an arm with Banner and, pulling him in tow, put the other arm around Steve’s shoulder then steered the pair into the tent. “The good doctor has explained to me my over sight — that one in possession of a soldier’s heart such as yours is far too retiring and modest for the lights and attentions and frankly, raucous hullabaloo of the crowd. I appreciate your team spirit in the attempt so much, but can you ever forgive my faux pas? Yes? Of course, I knew you could!”

Steve chanced a bemused look across Tony to Banner who rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“Ah, sir?”

“Yes. To explain: The show is anything if adaptable and you, Peter tells me — and I have seen so myself — are a fine prop master. That military precision! So, yes, your skills are needed in the back stage area. But for the doves and entering the ring, I’m afraid you made the task look like such fun, Banner demanded a turn. Don’t be selfish. Pepper? Does he seem like the selfish type?”

“No, Tony,” She answered as she hurried past with her breakfast tray. “He never has.”

“See? Don’t disappoint Pep. You’ll give Banner a turn too like a good Joe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s the spirit!” Antonio clapped him on the shoulder. “So you’ll be focusing all your energies in the staging capacity and Dr. Banner will have the sport of being your go-between, your understudy, your help-meet if you will, in the pesky area of bird retrieval. Dernier will drill him this afternoon and we will get through our last performances with aplomb and flying colors! Yes, we will! The show must go on!” Tony all but shouted this final bit and the table closest, full of the musicians, raised their coffee cups and whooped in agreement.

Stark bowed to them and marched away whistling “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

Bruce followed Steve into the chow line. “He gets like this towards season’s end.”

“He just made a demotion sound like a medal ceremony.” Steve breathed.

“Well, there’s worse ways to be dismissed.” Bruce allowed. “You doing alright this morning, otherwise?”

Steve looked down, but he laughed a little. “Actually, yeah.”

“Good.”

It was better than good. Steve felt the weird antsy lightness of the night before return. As he and Scott ate — and eating was hard — he watched the entrance and tried to put together the scattered fragments of his vision of the beach. His hand drifted down to where the new sketchbook and pencil box were in his jacket and he pulled them out and began, very shakily, to lay out an umbrella just off the edge of a boardwalk.

Were people looking at him? No.

But he felt different, still.

Slugging the last of his coffee, Scott wiped his mouth and gave Steve a friendly punch in the shoulder before he went to work.

Steve added a woman, seated, her back to the viewer, and a hand raised to shade her eyes as she looked out in the surf. His line quality was different now, but it grew in confidence: became more varied in pressure and width despite the hitch and shiver in his grip. It was okay though. It would work itself out or become a part of the process.

The light changed over him and he looked up, heart stuttering, to James’s dazzling smile. Steve scrambled to his feet - a reflex - and gestured, offering the seat next to him.

Behind James, Clint cracked up at this show of manners — which earned him an elbow to the gut before the rider plopped down, still grinning.

Steve sat again too, coloring red, and daring a look to James, then to Clint retreating for the chow line, and then over the rest of the room, before back to James a little desperately, as though willing him to understand. Willing him to know he felt naked, or like he was on another planet.

The rider leaned in. “It’s okay.” He said simply.

The soldier wanted to dive into that small phrase and wrap the deep steady voice around him for protection. He recognized the tone just for calming the horses and he didn’t care.

“Is it?”

“Really.” James’s eyes were calm but crinkled with a fond, sad smile. “Christ, sweetheart…” He huffed a laugh and looked down before meeting Steve’s eyes again. “You remind me of me my first year and with Stark’s friends in New York… I was jittery as hell. Just terrified.”

Steve stared, fascinated at the idea of Buckaroo Barnes being out of his depth.

James seemed to read this and laughed a little, shaking his head. “It’s… it’s a safe place here though. No one cares. Everyone’s got something odd. Something different…” His face grew earnest, “Troopers aren’t all like that, you know. I had a guy who booked a dime museum for the off season want to know if I did exhibitions because of my arm. Like the ten-in-one where the lady embroiders hankies with her toes because she has no arms? Didn’t care about the riding or my horses. He wanted me to show people how I can tie my shoes with one hand. All day, in a joint on the boardwalk.”

Steve blanched. “Tony wouldn’t do that.”

“No. No, he wouldn’t. Tony doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that Clint’s deaf or Scott’s the world’s worst burglar or that he’s not supposed to hire a mixed race trapeze act. And he, nor anyone else, really gives two shits if two guys like each other. …If you and I like each other, or even if it’s just me liking you…” Tears had appeared suddenly.

Steve pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to James.. “Not that he matters, but what about Happy?”

James sniffed and hastily mopped his face. “Phew, Hap. He’s just jealous of everyone — ‘cause he’s scared he doesn’t really matter. Just wants to take the performers down a peg or two. ’S probably good for us.”

“Well,” Steve started, “In case you’re still wondering, it’s not.”

“Not good for us?”

“It’s not just you liking me.” Steve corrected gently. “Never has been.”

* * *

  
“You think they’re going to make it to rehearsal?”

Clint was lingering over his third coffee hoping the caffeine would kick in, and Natasha and Wanda had dawdled along with him. Natasha, because, while she’d never admit it, any opportunity to sit side by side with Clint was fine with her. … And Wanda because, like Clint, she’d been watching Rogers and Barnes huddled smiling together deep in talk for the better part of the last hour.

“I’m sure someone will roust them out. Won’t be me. But someone.” Wanda smiled.

“Where are you headed after this?” Natasha glanced at Wanda.

“Atlantic City. Mercury Dime Museum. Thought I’d caravan with Hap and Scott. You?”

“New York. Sam booked us in Harlem. Then I fill in on Ringling’s Christmas show. Sam’s going home for a bit, so I told Peter we’d train together so he can learn the main routine. I’ve never been to Queens.”

Wanda waved to catch Clint’s eye. “What about you?”

“Ringling’s with ‘Tash.” He smirked. “She pulled some strings to give me a taste of the big time.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Then down to Tony and Pepper’s.”

“And Barnes?” Natasha asked.

“He booked a holiday deal in Philly, then Baltimore, then back home.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed. “Why? He doesn’t need the extra money.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I think at the time he signed, he wanted to take his mind off something.”

* * *

Okay, so someone on Tumblr shared this vintage picture, and my eyes pretty much fell out of my  
head. I have no words. But in writing a skinny smol Steve story I felt it was my duty to share it:


	17. The Trailer

* * *

“I’m glad you like the book.” James’s eye twinkled as he gave the open sketchbook a little nod.

“That was you?” Steve turned red and suddenly felt very stupid. “Oh…”

James laughed, then reached over and pawed the drawing closer to examine. His brows furrowed and he looked hard at Steve. “You said you’re from Brooklyn originally?” He looked back at the drawing of the seaside.

Rogers felt his chest squeeze. “Yeah. When I was little, we went to Coney Island.” He stared at Bucky, who was staring back.

“You dug a mote. We hid under a blue and white striped blanket—“ James looked at the drawing again then back to Steve, unbelieving.

“You’ve got freckles on your shoulders — that’s not — I thought you lived in Kentucky?” Steve blurted.

“Jesus.” James breathed. “No. I… When I was little — barely five — that’s when this happened.” He waved to his empty shirt sleeve. “We went upstate to a specialist, and then my mom, she said I wasn’t doing good afterwards, and she moved us to her brother’s horse farm outa Lexington. When I got scared about my arm right after — I, I” He broke off with a gasping humorless laugh that turned to red rimmed eyes. “I used to cry because I thought you wouldn’t play with me like this!”

Steve was suddenly hugging James, squeezing as hard as he could, unaware of nothing else but that there was a scrap of familiar to grab and hold — cook tent and any onlookers be damned. He heard again Winifred asking him if they’d met before and that made him squeeze harder. “I didn’t know where you’d gone after the summer. Ma said it was her fault, that she lost touch. We just thought you’d still be there and keep meeting us at the beach. We didn’t know something was wrong.”

Bucky’s arm was around his back, holding him just as tight. “Hey Steve? You know what?”

The soldier had his face buried in James’s neck and shoulder. “What?” He managed, not releasing an inch.

“You were my first kiss.”

* * *

Sunday. The show would be over Sunday.

Steve’s head was a blur of James’s blue grey eyes, snatches of Clint and Sam and whoever else talking about winter plans, Dernier cursing in French as Bruce fumbled his first two tries at scooping up doves during rehearsal, and a ticking clock that was about tear him away from the only person who — how could he not have seen?—was an actual piece of his past and home before his world fell apart.

It was like something from a Dicken’s novel, wasn’t it?

He didn’t care.

He ran the props for drills and rehearsal and that night’s set up perfect and seamless, his gaze, his thoughts, his center, perfectly listing towards James, like a magnet facing north.

They had a few days. The rest of this week? Maybe the start of next before Thanksgiving when the equipment and animals were sorted and packed. Pepper told him they’d take the trucks to the rail yard by Wednesday night. When would James leave?

By the time the show was over that night and Steve raced through clearing the bleachers and raking the ring, he was bursting to ask James as if the difference between Tuesday and Wednesday were life and death.

James was finishing cooling down the horses and settling them in for the night. “My train’s on Tuesday. You’re doing Hartford with Stark? With the goats?” Bucky frowned, closing Tycho into his pen.

What?

“Goats? Stark said he wanted help with the horses.”

The rider’s mouth quirked up a little in surprise. “Well, yeah. But they go to Pepper’s sisters. It’s a dairy farm. You know… goats. Butter and cheese.”

“Oh…” Steve nodded. Leave it to Tony to maintain some air of mystery.

“Look, Happy comes in and helps them after the holidays. Clint too. They can manage until then — you can beg off and come with me. I need a groom, right?”

“Come with you?”

“Yeah. I’ve got two solo shows before I go home. Philadelphia and Baltimore. If you could help, that’d be perfect.”

“I thought you were just going home?”

James huffed an embarrassed laugh. “Probably shoulda been, but at the time I thought I’d do better to be busy.” He snickered. “And a contract’s a contract, so I’m sort of stuck. C’mon. What’dya say?” James grinned at Steve’s lost look and leaned down to peck his cheek, as though to seal the deal.

Steve swallowed. His last ditch hope was that James had some flexibility. That he’d be able to visit him at Stark’s— but clearly that wasn’t an option. “James… I… Tony hired me when I couldn’t find a job.” His hands were shaking and his voice came out reedy and raw. How could he be in this nightmare? All he wanted was to start the season over with what he knew now.

Barnes pulled back and considered Steve, quickly reading the frightened look. “Hey, hey there…”  
He blew out an exasperated chuckle. “Look at us. Heh. It’s alright. S’alright.” His arm hooked around the smaller man and squeezed, his hand finding the back of his neck. “I get it. It’s okay. Look. I’ll have some extra cash, and after Christmas I’ll get a train ticket and come see you and be a royal pest. That’ll teach Tony! And by then you’ll know how to churn butter. We can survive till after Christmas, right?”

Steve chanced a look up, feeling relief. James understood. He wanted nothing more than to go with James and help with his solo shows or be a groom or whatever needed to be done. But Tony had given him shelter and work and a steady paycheck when he had nothing. He couldn’t pay him back by ditching him. He offered James a grateful smile.

Bucky grinned and tipped his head back. “Clint went into town with ‘Tasha. C’mon, let’s go to my trailer.”

  
………………………………………………………………………………

  
It seemed like it was James’s idea, but before they were halfway across the lot, Steve was in the lead, towing Bucky by the hand. They tripped over the steps, laughing in their haste to get inside to privacy.

Bucky plopped on his bunk, toeing his boots off and tugged Steve forward by the hand.

Steve came along, kneeling on the mattress beside him, starting to feel shy suddenly. “You, ah, made time with, uh, a lot of guys?” He swallowed.

Smiling, James shook his head. “A couple.” He looked like he wanted to make a crack, but his gaze got soft when he looked at poor Steve who was all fluttering nerves. “Not a lot. You’ve kissed a lot of girls, Romeo?”

Steve cracked up.

“Oh, I see how it is.” James giggled. He leaned forward and tipped Steve’s chin up with his finger. Steve’s eyes flashed at his, then his lashes lowered and he listed forward too…

Bucky’s lips were soft, warm. At first Steve only pressed a little against them, gently, his heart hammering, his brain cataloging everything: their taste, the close scent of Bucky’s sweat, a hint of coffee, the vast contrast in the slick soft of lip versus the rough sandpaper bite of Buck’s late-shaved cheek. He was right here, parting his lips, yielding, taking Steve’s lower lip between his, and spreading his warm hand over Steve’s shoulder blade, urging him in.

Lightning didn’t strike. The ground didn’t open.

They separated a little, eyes meeting. Bucky’s were half lidded, and he breathed through parted lips before nuzzling Steve’s cheek. He was so damned beautiful, even sweaty and worn out and stinking of leather and horse. He looked up through his dark lashes and smiled at Steve, and oh christ…

Steve went back in, still exploratory, but bolder. He found his hands on Buck’s shoulders and pushed him back into the bunk, one hand sliding over to get his fingers into that hair, to cradle and hold his head as he pressed in. It was beyond anything Steve could have imagined — better even — the other man stretched out under him, happy, warm, welcoming. He could touch those shoulders, that neck, run his hands over that beautifully muscled chest. He turned his head, kissing deeper and forcing himself to be slow, but inside, he was overwhelmed. His heart was going to beat out or burst and there was a tightness pulling up in his belly…

James was so much bigger than he was, but he stretched out under Steve, soft and easy. He couldn’t help himself, and slid his bent leg over the top of the larger man’s thighs, slow, careful, before shifting his weight and straddling him, hands returning to his shoulders and pressing in harder.

A whimper escaped James, and fuck…

Steve made himself pull back, his breath rough. “This okay?”

James blinked up at him like a dazed swimmer, then in answer, lifted his head up trying to close the gap, straining to catch Steve’s lips again.

Well. Christ. Steve dove back down, weight pinning Bucky’s hips, arms encircling his head, chest to chest. He wanted to stay here. To ignore the urgency building in him and just slowly consume and float in this intimate soft warm place of close secret scents and tastes…

His body had other, desperate, stupid ideas.

He found himself pressing down, rocking against James’s upper thighs and the other man put his arm across his back, his hand greedily clutching into the small of it with a muffled noise of encouragement and, shit, that was all it took. Impromptu lightning shook down Steve’s spine and he groaned and bit back a cry as he helplessly bucked and trembled.

“Jesus. Jesus.” He burned with embarrassment, going limp on James and tucking his face in his neck, before the full reality of what he’d done struck him and he tried to roll off.

Bucky’s arm — christ how could a man’s single arm be so strong?— hugged him down, stopping him, then stroked down his back while he nuzzled and eagerly placed soft kisses along Steve’s jaw and ear and any bit of the side of his head he could reach.

James didn’t care. Didn’t seem surprised, or disappointed, or disgusted…

Steve relaxed with a heavy watery sigh, arms still encircling the rider’s head and Bucky continued petting Steve’s back, rubbing soft circles.

After a little, Steve lifted his head to meet the other’s eyes. “I’m sor…”

But James was smiling in greeting. “Don’t do that.” He laughed softly and shook his head, searching for words. “That bit, that bit when you put your—“ He stammered, laughed again and went red. “When you pushed me down by the shoulders? I didn’t… Shit, it was you or me then.” He managed, eyes darting away and back and continuing to blush.

“You liked that?”

Bucky bit his lower lip and rolled his eyes skyward, and Steve laughed. He suddenly felt about ten feet tall.

* * *

When Clint came in later and the trailer was lit with just the scant blue glow from the windows, he found the pair asleep in Bucky’s bunk. James was behind Steve, spooning him, arm thrown over him and Steve was burrowed down, looking peaceful and secure, passed out half underneath the larger man. They looked impossibly young asleep in the half light, and had they not stank of sweat, horsey clothing and frankly, sex, Barton would have said angelic. Ah, what the hell. Definitely angelic. What was heaven without getting well laid if you wanted?

While harassing the pair from the upper bunk when they woke up in the morning was awfully tempting, Clint quietly grabbed a blanket and slipped back out. He could camp with his dogs tonight.

* * *

  
“Jesus. I only have the one arm and it’s asleep. How? It’s not like you’re that heavy!”

It was morning, and the pair were hustling to get dressed in the chilly trailer. Steve grabbed James’s hand and chaffed up and down his forearm and bicep, rubbing at the tingles. “I’m solid muscle. Very dense.”

“You got that right. Completely dense.” The rider dipped forward to peck Steve before the other could smack him for the crack. “Next time I’m the little spoon.” He added between kisses.

Steve just grinned. He was completely screwed and he didn’t care. He’d give James anything he wanted. Anything at all.

* * *


	18. The Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as far as I'd posted before. There is a final chapter after this that's maybe about 1/3 writtten? What's written is some key scenes. I'm going to try to finish it and get it up here -- as slow and crummy a writer as I am, this story was definitely a case of 'write the story you want to read' and it deserves an ending. Anyway, fair warning that the last bit may be a while.

* * *

In a perfect world, the show, the animals, equipment maintenance and all would have politely taken two broad steps back and gotten out of Steve and Bucky’s way, but the reality was that with the last performances placed against the plans of sorting and packing, both men’s work load doubled. Steve was like a second set of hands attached to Dugan as the rowdy prepared to rack the bleachers and canvas for storage.

“You prepped vehicles for shipping?” DumDum asked, wiping sweat from under the brow line of his bowler as they flagged which trucks were Stark’s that would go to winter storage.

“Sort of the opposite.” Steve admitted. “Took them off the train, bled the fuel lines and hooked up the batteries.”

“Well, just run in reverse and you’ll be fine.” Dugan sniffed. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Half the vans and what not belong to the performers.”

A bigger point of contention came down around Scott’s tarantulas. Steve knew Happy had been Lang’s assigned driver before, but it hadn’t gelled with him that job included driving his rig to Atlantic City where off-season he did lights for a burlesque show. Happy had a brother there, so it always worked out for him to schedule a visit over the holidays, only now…

…Before the show on Friday, Steve found Scott and Happy at each other in the cook tent while Wanda watched the back and forth show, lips tight to hide her growing amusement.

“You can’t just quit! We had a deal!” The engineer flung down his napkin and all but stamped on it.

“You screwed the pooch on that all by your lonesome, Lang. I don’t drive no eight-legged freaks.”

“They’re harmless. HARMLESS.”

“Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Wanda snickered.

Scott elbowed her and glared pointedly with a desperate ‘C’mon, work with me’ look.

“I don’t care if the hairy bastards knit mittens for orphans with their leftover webs — I’m not touching that truck! You’re on your own!”

In the end, Wanda let Scott off the hook, volunteering to drive his rig if Happy would caravan with them driving hers. It was almost as though she’d seen this whole arrangement coming long before the two men did.

Steve wondered about that. How strange it was, with Wanda so young, she ran her own show, and owned her own business and portable house. She was free; she could yank up stakes at any time, and she had no special loyalty or reason to help out Scott or Hap. She still chose to though, with a smile and a shrug as if they were loved, if sometimes annoying, older brothers.

In this chaos of packing, props and final performances, the only moment Steve and Bucky got together was at breakfast and following the show, when they would linger together in the cook tent, shoulder to shoulder, tired. James even laid his head on Steve’s shoulder, which at first made him pause, then relax and slide his arm around the rider’s back, his heart pounding to feel Bucky lean in and let him take some of his weight.

“I’ll send you postcards, yeah?”

“You better. I-I will too.”

“You’d like my uncle’s place. S’nice. I have my own room attached to the stable.”

“So you’re saying you sleep with your horse?” Steve cracked.

“Every night. He hogs the covers and snores too.” Steve could feel James’s eyelashes brush his neck as the rider tilted his head up to grin at him. “You should come kick him out…”

Instead Steve turned, hand catching James’s cheek, and leaned in for a fumbling sleepy kiss to tell him how much he liked that idea.

  
Before the last show, Darcy and Jane raced around waving every rowdy, every cook, every groom, concession person — anyone they could find into the top. They passed Steve with the dove crates in the prop alley. “You too Steve! Gotta be quick! Take the birds!”

Confused, but never one to refuse, he followed orders and found the entire rag tag outfit, horses, dogs and all, crowding into the center ring.

Bucky sat astride Tycho and waved at Steve. Pepper and Tony were each with Oscar and his calliope wagon, quickly hustling workers into a line on the buckboard while Clint handed them each one of the small dogs to hold.

“Rogers, c’mere.” Dugan grabbed his shoulder and stood him in place to hold Jack while Dernier held Jill. Behind him the black mare snuffled and lipped at his shirt collar, while two of the cooks were heaved onto her back to raise them up.

Over in the crowded stands, Darcy had her camera on a tripod and was showing a nodding audience member this and that on the equipment with a lot of pointing and grins of encouragement. Then she ran back into the group and Thor swung her and Jane each up to perch on either of his shoulders.

“A-One, and a-Two, and a-THREEEEE!!!”

Blinking away the flash and amid cheers from the group, Steve caught a glimpse of Natasha and Sam rising up from doing star-on-the-bar poses on the lowered trapeze swings. From the camera’s angle, they must have looked like bookend angels framing the troupe. He couldn’t wait to see the photo.

* * *

Bucky’s train for Philly was much earlier than the one that would take Stark, Pepper and Steven north. With everything broken down and waiting in the rail yard, he wasn’t needed — he could help James load Tycho and Sarah and see them off. The night before had been mostly happy hugs and goodbyes and addresses written down and traded with promises of ‘see you next spring’ and ‘I’ll call when I can’. Mostly Steve was good with it, but when it came down to Scott, Steve felt his stomach squeeze and mouth go dry unexpectedly. But Lang seemed in the same boat — the two had no words, just grabbing each other hard in a rib-creaking hug until they both laughed. Steve broke from it, ignored his wet face and went on to grab Banner and then Thor’s gang next, promising postcards and letters… …Refusing to watch Lang and Wanda’s trucks pull out of the lot, even with James running alongside, sticking his tongue out at Happy and making goofy faces at Maximov until they were gone.

But now though… Steve had a hard lump in his throat. James’s trunks were loaded and they’d walked and settled the horses into the stall in the livestock car. Once hidden behind the heavy wood doors, with only the animals as witnesses, the two young men’s eyes met, and they fell against each other, clutching each other hard like they were drowning. James kissed him, but softly, trying harder to bury himself against Steve, curl into his arms, hide against his neck… Until he finally tugged at him. “No one can see us. Can we sit for a little while?”

In answer, Steve was already guiding them down to the straw, side by side, backs to the stall wall.

Shoulder to shoulder, holding hands… They watched the two horses sniff around their new strange smaller world.

Bucky sidled over closer and Steve lifted his arm easy, welcoming him to scoot in where he could wrap it around him.

At first, Steve felt James nose at his jaw, and his lips brush his neck, but then Bucky drew his legs up, making himself small, and there was the soft skin of James’s brow against the soldier’s neck, head settling onto his shoulder and collarbone with a sigh. How odd? The rider’s knees were now sort of folded a little over his right thigh, but not quite in his lap…

Steve blinked and tilted his head down curiously, suddenly understanding.

James was curling up against him, trying to be little.

He wanted to be held.

Steve brought his other arm around James’s shoulder to cup his back in a secure squeeze. He lifted Bucky’s hand to his lips, pressing light kisses to his knuckles before tucking it in to his chest and quickly getting both arms wrapped around him, his right hand carefully combing and stroking James’s dark curls, soft with pomade. It was clearly what James craved, because he moved in more snug and Steve felt him sigh and drop more weight on him.

Steve thought his heart would burst.

His chest swelled with warmth and a curious wonder to find Bucky’s body mirroring the ache and loneliness he’d felt — the rider was only doing exactly what Steve had dreamed about himself for so long.

Having a safe warm harbor…

Maybe it’s all of us, Steve thought. Maybe everyone? Though he had a hard time picturing strutting Antonio with any hunger like this… The warmth in his chest was only matched by a fierce protectiveness. James would never want for this again, never, if Steve had any say about it.

Except.

Oh, christ, except. Damn.

“It’s only a couple months.” Steve said softly. Maybe some to himself.

James sighed. “But I miss you already.”

“Of course you do.”

James shoved him away with a barked laugh. “Fucking punk.” He muttered then fumbled to grab Steve close again.

Rogers slid his arms back around him, grinning to feel James curl into him.“Think we established that.” He whispered. “If only we coulda figured it out sooner.” James snickered a little at this and it made Steve glow. Make him laugh. Yeah. We gotta laugh about this… Steve held him tight, feeling James sigh and let his head sink against his shoulder again. Steve snugged him in firm, breathing in his salt, cut hay and warm blood scent.

“It’s only a couple months.” James agreed at last.

* * *

  
Like Lang’s truck, Steve couldn’t watch James’s train go. Luckily Stark and Dugan grabbed him, hustling him off to start bringing vehicles onto the flat train cars and checking the cargo chains. Rogers gave himself up to it, feeling like an empty automaton, or like he hadn’t yet realized he’d stepped off the ground into the void of open air.

Only a couple months.

Sam and Natasha only flew for seconds before hard calloused hands met them, seized them firm and strong, and they felt their body weight join the load in their partner’s backward swing…

* * *

  
Dugan had peeled off an hour or more ago. It was almost time to leave, so the soldier went through the final loading checklist one more time before…

“She’s a queen. Magnificent.”

Steve heard Tony’s voice down the rail yard and quickly tugged tight and fastened his last few chains on the last flatbed. In the failing evening light, he hurried down the line, hopped a couple tracks and ducked between two cars to find Tony standing with a tall lanky stranger in front of a Cole Brother’s menagerie car. The upper half of the stall door was flipped open and… Steve pulled up short, suddenly craning his neck to look up.

The thing was huge.

It didn’t help that it was also about four feet higher on the train car platform, but still, good lord…

An elephant.

  
And Tony was beneath it, arms spread and bouncing on tiptoe, like an overjoyed supplicant in awe of a heralding angel. “Look at you, gorgeous. Just look at you. Soldier, have you ever seen such a fantabulous beast?” His warm breath became a frozen mist wreathed around the animal’s massive head.

Steve had no idea when Stark had spotted him, but by now he was used to the ringmaster’s weird 6th sense or remarkable peripheral vision. You couldn’t slip up on Tony. “No sir.”

The elephant fanned her ears and patted Stark down methodically with her trunk. He rubbed the rough wrinkled grey hose and hooked an arm around it in a gleeful little hug while immediately fumbling to give up all the treasures he kept hidden on his person for random children — peppermints, some licorice and a bag of taffy.

The stranger stepped forward at this, quietly intercepted the taffy bag before it disappeared into the animal’s pink maw, but he let the other candies go. “She could be all yours.” He said quietly. Steve managed to take his eyes off the elephant to look over Tony’s companion. He was long and tall with hollow cheeks and a goatee of facial hair, similar to Antonio’s, but lighter, salt and pepper. Silver white was shot through at the man’s temples and his eyes were pale and hard. “I’ll make you a steal of a price for her.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan.” Antonio chuckled and Steve saw the corners of the other man’s mouth crook up a hint.

“Come now. Before Pepper gets here.”

Presently, the elephant reached for Steve. His eyes flashed to the tall man, who smirked and gave him a little nod, so the soldier put his hands out tentatively to touch the trunk. The skin was so thick and rough — almost like tree bark— he had to rub and grasp it to feel the warmth and pliant muscle within. Its end was slick with clear snot around the nostrils and had two stubby tips that wiggled and moved like grasping, searching fingers. Steve laughed, delighted, and feeling bolder, stepped closer to let her pat down his coat and shove her way into his pockets.

“What do you think, Private Rogers? Cole Brother’s is shrinking their herd. Do we shake out our piggy banks before the missus gets here? She could help Oscar pull the calliope.”

“Tony!”

Steve wheeled away from the animal and thrust his hands behind his back like a guilty child.

But Tony only beamed happily as Pepper stalked over.

“‘Evening Miss Potts. Lovely to see you.”

“And you Stephen.” She replied curtly as the tall man gave her a courtly bow. She spun directly to the soldier, hugging her coat around her against the cold air. “Any money changed hands? Bill of sale?”

Steve did a double take before realizing he must share first names with the tall man. “No ma’am.”

Pepper’s thin line of a mouth softened. She reached over and retrieved his pencil box he hadn’t even felt go missing from his pocket out of the pachyderm’s grasp, and handed it back to him. “Good. Good. We’ve agreed a dozen times, domestic animals only.”

“But look at her!”

“No, Tony.”

“Just one measly little elephant? Just one? Would it help if I told you she followed me home?”

“No, Tony…” She patted the animal’s trunk, then firmly steered Antonio back towards their trucks by the elbow. “Have a good winter, Stephen.”

“You too, Miss Potts. Always a pleasure.”

Steve hurried after his bosses. Looking back, he heard the train whistle and watched the silhouette of the tall man in the cold fading light. An angular shadow, he swung himself up the side of the menagerie car and closed the open door once the animal backed her head into the dark stall.

  
“What’ll happen to her?” Steven asked over the pullout table in the train car.

“Her?” Tony raised his eyebrows and glanced at Pepper.

“The elephant?”

“Oh, _her_. Well, she may end up at the pound or the glue factory, poor thing.”

“Tony!” Pepper smacked his shoulder, but she was smiling. “She’ll probably end up with Ringling, Steven. They’ve been building their herd for parade entrances. But if not, a zoo or some show will take her. Everyone wheels and deals over the break, especially down in Florida.”

Antonio sniffed. “Stephen just hoped to save the freight of taking her south since he’s selling her. I’d love an elephant, but we do well moving our own excess of horse flesh all over creation.”

“What would you do with an elephant?”

Stark gave Steve an incredulous look. “One doesn’t need to do anything with an elephant, short of marvel at God’s creation. It’s the largest land mammal, you know. They remember and mourn their own dead. Easily the most remarkable beast short of the fabled unicorn.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “You asked for it…”

“The pachyderm’s skull features a single central hole,” Stark tapped his forehead in illustration, “Possibly leading to the legends of the giant Polyphemus, the cyclops of Greek myth!”

“Tony, stop…”

But Stark did not stop. He rattled off an encyclopedia of elephant biology and lore, smacking the thin Formica table for emphasis.

When Steven was thoroughly glazed over, Pepper put a hand over Tony’s mouth and hugged him. “So you see, if we ever got our own elephant, the show would end. We’d just become some roadside temple to Ganesh with Tony running around in saffron robes and feeding it peanuts. Such an ignoble end to his career.”

“You mean the most noble.” Stark corrected, kissing the palm that had silenced him.

“So you like elephants.” The soldier smirked.

“I’m very afraid I do.”

  
By the time the animal and vehicle loading and car changes were done and the train began its crawl into the night again, it was very late. Pepper yawned, but still dug out sandwiches and a coffee thermos from the hamper she brought. Riding close to the livestock trailers, their passenger car was older and bare, with half the seats removed to accommodate strapped down trunks and luggage from the front of the train. The rest of it was empty, save for a couple porters who kept to the front seats, quietly smoking and playing cards. Steve watched the last of the city lights shrink away until the window was full of nothing but blue black shapes as the three of them ate and settled in their seats.

Eventually Miss Potts wrestled a second coat from one of their bags and, using it as a blanket, nestled against Tony’s side to close her eyes. Stark smiled down at her and kissed her temple, before returning his gaze, like Steve’s, to the still night slipping by the window.

“James told me it’s a goat farm.” The soldier began with a quiet smirk.

“You were expecting gryphons and gazelles?” Tony grunted back. “I swear it gets harder and harder to spin a little whimsy with all the tongues wagging.” He shifted to give Pepper a little more of his shoulder, then nodded his head down and slid his hat over his eyes to try to sleep. “Ever milk a goat?”

“No sir.”

“And yet you chose this life over being Barnes’ groom.”

Steve’s breathe caught. “Mr. Stark, I…” He sputtered, then paused seeing the corners of Tony’s mouth hook up. “You’ve helped me — it was no choice at all. Besides, we’ve made plans for after Christmas, maybe.”

Tony’s smile curled wider. “Good man.”

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t understand.”

“About what?”

“Me. Your people… Pepper jokes about your strays, but everyone who works for you —there’s so many people— and you hired me. Why?”

“You know this is dangerously close to telling how a trick is done?”

“Baloney.”

Tony sighed and shoved his hat back up enough to fix Steve in the eye.

“I am good at only two things really: reading people and fooling people. Which honestly, just sets me up for a life of crime… I am also intelligent enough to know where that rabbit hole is likely to end, case in point, our good friend Mr. Lang.”

Steve nodded and swallowed but didn’t interrupt. “So very early on,” Stark continued, “I decided to use my inestimable powers for good instead of evil. That’s where the show came in. Abracadabra and alakazam, here we are, wholesome fun for the whole family. And you? You’re not that difficult a read, kid. I can see you’re good people. You find a hard worker that needs and wants a place to fit, hell, you got yourself a bargain.”

* * *

I ran across some rail yard photos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/4/2020 I'm calling it. If I finish something else on this I'll change it but right now I'm ready to just say fuck everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I really do finish works. But I have a bad habit of getting self conscious/depressed and  
orphaning them (Case in point: Spa Day, inspired by Owlet's works) or more recently deleting them. Sorry about that. In light of current events, I'm going to try to put them back.
> 
> Also, specific to this fic, while I've read tons of circus history books, I really don't know nuts and bolts of  
military career stuff, so please forgive that my 'back from the war' stuff is super vague  
and hand-wavy.


End file.
